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THE  POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

OSCAR  WILDE 

WITH   A   BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

BY 

NATHAN    HASKELL   DOLE 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


#. 


Copyright,  1913, 
By  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 

DEDICATION:   To  my  Wife,  with  a  Copy  of  my 

Poems  Page      iii 

(From  Book-Song,  London,  1893.) 

INTRODUCTION  xiii 

—  RAVENNA  1 

(Newdigate  Prize  Poem.  Recited  in  the  theatre,  Ox- 
ford, June  26,  1878.  Poem  was  dedicated  to 
Miss  Constance  Fletcher,  who  wrote  under  the 
pseudonym  of  "George  Fleming.") 

POEMS  17 

(First  collected  in  one  volume  in  1881.  Published 
by  David  Bogue,  London.) 

Helas!  18 

Eleutheria  19 

(Title  of  first  division  of  "Poems.") 

Ave  Imperatrix  21 

(First  appeared  in  The  World,  London,  August, 
1880.) 

Sonnet  to  Liberty  27 

To  Milton  28 

Louis  Napoleon  29 

Sonnet  on  the  Mas.sacre  of  the  Christians  in 

Bulgaria  30 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

Quantum  Mutata  Page     31 

Libertatis  Sacra  Fames  32 

(First  appeared  in  The   World,  November,  1880.) 

Theoretikos  33 

The  Garden  of  Eros  35 

Rosa  Mystica  49 

Requiescat  51 

Sonnet  on  Approaching  Italy  52 

(First  appeared  in  The  Irish  Monthly,  June,  1877.) 

San  Miniato  53 

Ave  Maria  Gratia  Plena  54 

(From    Kottahos,   Michaelmas   Term,    1879.) 

Italia  55 

Sonnet  written  in  Holy  Week  at  Genoa  56 

(From   The  Illustrated  Monitor,  July,   1877.) 

Rome  Unvisited  57 

(From   The  Month  and  Catholic  Review,  September, 
1876.) 

Urbs  Sacra  Sterna  61 

(First   appeared    in    The   Illustrated   Monitor,   June, 
1877.) 

Sonnet  on  Hearing  the  Dies  Iras  Sung  in  tlie 

Sistine  Chapel  62 

Easter  Day  63 

(First  appeared  in  Waifs  and  Strays,  Oxford,  June, 
1879.) 

E  Tenebris  64 


CONTENTS  vii 

Vita  Nuova  Pa^e     65 

(First    appeared    in    The    Irish    Monthly,    December, 
187T.) 

Madonna  Mia  66 

(First    appeared    as    "Wasted    Days,"    in    Kot tubes, 
Michaelmas  Term,  1877.) 

The  New  Helen  67 

(From    Time,  A    Monthly   Magazine,  July,    1879.     Is 
addressed   to   Mrs.   Langtry.) 

The  Burden  of  Itys  71 

Wind  Flowers 

Impression  du  Matin  91 

(First  appeared   in   The    World,  March,  1881.) 

Magdalen  Walks  92 

(First  appeared  in  The  Irish  Monthly,  April,  1878.) 

Athanasia  9*^ 

(First    published    as    "The    Conqueror    of    Time,"    in 
Time,  A   Monthly  Magazine,   April,   1879.) 

Serenade  97 

Endymion  99 

La  Bella  Donna  della  mia  Mente  101 

(First   appeared   in  Kottabos,   Trinity   Term,  1876.) 

Chanson  .  103 

Charmides  105 
Flowers  of  Gold 

Impressions.     I.  Les  Silhouettes  139 

II.  La  Fuitc  dc  la  Liinc  140 

(First    appeared    in    The    Irish    Monthly,    February, 
1877.) 


viii  CONTENTS 

The  Grave  of  Keats  Page  141 

(First  appeared  in  The  Irish  Monthly,  July,  1877.) 

Theocritus  :   A  Villanelle  142 

In  the  Gold  Room :   A  Harmony  143 

Ballade  de  Marguerite  144 

(First  appeared   in   Kottabos,   Hilary   Term,    1879.) 

The  Dole  of  the  King's  Daughter  147 

(First    appeared    in    Dublin    University    Magazine, 
June,    1876.) 

Amor  Intellectualis  149 

--  Santa  Decca  150 

A  Vision  151 

(First  appeared  as  "A  Night  Vision,"  in  Kottabos, 
Hilary    Term,    1877.) 

Impression  de  Voyage  152 

(First  appeared  in  Waifs  and  Strays,  Oxford,  1880.) 
The  Grave  of  Shelley  153 

By  the  Arno  154 

(First    appeared    in    Dublin    University    Magazine, 
March,   1876.) 

Impressions  de  Theatre 

Fabien  dei  Franchi  157 

Phedre  158 

(First    appeared   in    The    World,   June,    1878.) 
Sonnets    written    at    the    Lyceum    Theatre: 

I.  Portia  159 

(First    appeared    in    The     World,    January,    1880.) 

II.  Queen  Henrietta  Maria  160 

(First  appeared  in    The    World,  July,   1879.) 
Camma  161 


CONTENTS 

ix 

Panthea 

PtKJC    KJ.'i 

The  Fourth  Movement 

Impression :  Le  Revcillon 

175 

At  Verona 

176 

Apologia 

177 

Quia  Multum  Amavi 

179 

Silentium  Amoris 

180 

Her  Voice 

181 

My  Voice 

183 

Taedium  Vitae 

184 

HUMANITAD 

185 

Flower  of  Love 

rXuxuxixpoq  "Epd)? 

209 

THE  SPHINX  (1894)  218 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  235 

(First  published  by  I>eonarcl  Smithers,  London,  1898. 
The  poem  was  dedicated  to  Charles  T.  Wool- 
dridge,  a  trooper  of  the  Royal  Horse  Guards, 
who   was  executed   for  the  murder  of  his  wife.) 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS  (1876-1893) 

From  Spring  Days  to  Winter  267 

(From  Dublin  University  Macfazine,  January,   1S7().) 

AYXivov  a'lXtvov  e(x^  t6  o'  eu  yr/.d-zi,)  268 

(From  Dublin  University  Magazine,  September,  1876.) 


CONTENTS 

The  True  Knowledge  Page  269 

(From    The   Irish    Monthly,   September,    1876.) 

Lotus  Leaves  270 

(From   The  Irish  Monthly,  February,  1877.) 

Wasted  Days  273 

(First  form  of  "Madonna  Mia,"  in  Kottahos,  Mich- 
aelmas Term,  1877.) 

Impressions:  I.  Le  Jardin  274 

11.   La  Mer  275 

(From  Our  Continent,  Philadelphia,  February,  1882.) 

Under  the  Balcony  276 

(From  The  Shaksperean  Show-Book,  1884.) 

The  Harlot's  House  278 

(First    appeared    in    The    Dramatic    Review,    April, 

1885.) 

Le  Jardin  des  Tuileries  280 

(From   In   a    Good    Cause,    a    Collection   of   Stories, 
Poems,  and  Illustrations,  June,  1885.) 

On   the    Recent    Sale   by    Auction    of   Keats' 

Love  Letters  281 

(From    The   Dramatic   Review,   January",    1886.) 

The  New  Remorse  282 

(From    T'he   Court    and   Society   Review,    December, 

1887.) 

Fantaisies  Decoratives :   I.  Le  Panneau  283 

11.  Les  Ballons  285 

(From   Christmps   Number   of   The  Lady's  Pictorial, 
1887.) 

Canzonet  286 

(From  Art  and  Letters,  April,  1888.) 


CONTENTS  xl 

Symphony  in  Yellow  Page  288 

(From   The  Centennial  Mitr/azine,  Sydney,   February, 

1889.) 

In  tlic  Forest  289 

(From  Christmas  Number  of  The  Lady's  Pictorial, 
1889.) 

With  a  Copy  of  "xV  House  of  Pomegranates"  290 

(From  Book-Song:  An  Anthology  of  Books  and 
Bookmen  from  Modern  Authors.  Edited  by 
Gleeson  White.     London,  1893.) 

To  L.  L.  291 

(Written    to   Mrs.    I.angtry,    1884.) 


POEMS  IN  PROSE 

(From    The  Fortnighlhj    Revieir,    1894.) 

I.  The  Artist  297 

II.  The  Doer  of  Good  298 

III.  The  Disciple  800 

(First   appeared   in    The   Spirit   Lamp,   June,    1893.) 

IV.  The  Master  80 1 

V.   The  House  of  Judgment  802 

First  appeared  in  The  Spirit  Lamp,  February,  1893.) 

M.   The  Teacher  of  Wisdom  805 

TRANSLATIONS  (1875-1880) 

Chorus  of  Cloud  Maidens  815 

(From  the  Dublin  f^nirersifg  Magazine,  November, 
1875.  Said  to  ho  the  earliest  known  published 
poem  by  Wilde.) 


xii  CONTENTS 

OpYjvqjBfa  Page  317 

(From  Kottahos,  Michaelmas   Term,   1876.) 

A     Fragment     from     the     Agamemnon     of 

^schylus  320 

(From   Kottahos,   Hilary   Term,   1877.) 

Sen  Artysty ;  or,  The  Artist's  Dream  324 

(From   The  Green  Room,   1880.) 

INDEX   OF    TITLES    AND   FIRST   LINES     329 


INTRODUCTION 

A  CERTAIN  parallel  can  be  drawn  between  the 
career  of  Oscar  Wilde  and  that  greater  poet  of 
whom  Wilde  spoke  as  one  who  gave  to  Athena  his 
sword  and  lyre — 

"Like  i^schylus  at  well-fought  Marathon 
And  died  to  show  that  Milton's  England  still  could 
bear  a  son. 

Both  were  to  the  last  degree  unfortunate  in  their  par- 
ents. The  titled  fathers  of  both  were  notorious  for 
their  irregular  lives.  The  mothers  of  both  were  eccen- 
tric, to  say  the  least.  Both  of  them  published  volumes 
of  immature  verse  which  roused  the  ire  of  the  critics. 
Both  won  a  reputation  which  time  has  confirmed.  Both 
jeopardized  their  popularity  by  immoral  practices. 
Both  died  in  the  prime  of  life.  In  the  case  of  both 
the  fortunate  adjusting  justice  of  mankind  has  sepa- 
rated the  man's  life  from  his  works  and  given  him 
credit  for  all  the  good,  reconciliation  for  his  confes- 
sion and  his  atonement,  and  forgetfulness  for  what  was 
his  alloy  of  ill. 

Oscar  Wilde  was  bom  in  Dublin,  October  16,   io.jt.       \^ 
His  father,  William  Ro})ert  Wills  Wilde,  was  Surgeon- 
Oculist-in-Ordinary  to  the  Queen,  a  Chevalier  of  the 


!,  185-1..     K 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

Kingdom  of  Sweden,  the  founder  of  St.  Mark's  Oph- 
thalmic Hospital  and  of  the  Dublin  Quarterly  Journal 
of  Science,  "the  father  of  modern  otology,"  and  the 
author  of  various  books  on  Irish  history  and  archaeol- 
ogy. He  was  knighted  by  the  Viceroy,  Lord  Carlisle, 
"not  so  much  for  his  high  professional  reputation, 
which  was  European  and  had  been  recognized  by  many 
countries  in  Europe,  but  to  mark  the  Viceroy's  sense 
of  the  services  he  had  rendered  to  statistical  science, 
especially  in  connection  with  the  Irish  census."  In  spite 
of  his  kindness  of  heart  and  his  professional  ability, 
he  was  a  man  of  unbridled  passions.  He  was  also  no- 
torious for  his  untidiness.  Just  after  he  received  his 
title,  an  Englishman,  newly  arrived  in  Dublin,  speak- 
ing of  the  passage  across  the  Channel  remarked  that 
it  was  the  dirtiest  night  he  had  ever  seen.  Father 
Healy,  who  heard  him  exclaimed,  "Oh,  then  it  must 
have  been  wild !" 

Oscar  Wilde's  mother  was  Jane  Francesca  Elgee. 
Under  the  name  of  "Speranza"  she  wrote  poems ;  un- 
der the  pseudonym  of  "John  Fenshaw  Ellis"  she  pub- 
lished political  articles,  one  of  which,  printed  in  the 
Nation,  led  to  the  suppression  of  that  firebrand  news- 
paper. She  claimed  that  her  famil}'^  was  of  Italian 
origin  and  the  name  Elgee  was  a  corruption  of  the 
family  name  of  Dante  Alighieri.  She  is  described  as 
being  frequently  in  a  state  of  gushing  exaltation,  with 
a  capacity  for  discovering  romance  in  what  was  trite 
and  commonplace.  She  had  no  need,  however,  of  go- 
ing back  to  Dante  for  a  distinguished  ancestry.     She 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

was  well  connected.  Her  paternal  grandfather  was 
Archdeacon  Elgee  of  Wexford.  Her  niotlicr  was 
granddaughter  of  Dr.  Kingsbury,  president  of  the 
Irish  College  of  Physicians.  One  of  her  uncles  was 
Sir  Charles  Ormsby,  Bart.  One  of  her  cousins  was 
Sir  Robert  ]\IcClure,  a  famous  explorer.  The  Rev. 
Charles  Robert  Maturin,  author  of  novels  which  ex- 
ceeded Ann  Radcliffe's  in  extravagance,  was  her  great 
uncle.  From  his  novel,  "jNIclmoth  the  Wanderer,'* 
Wilde  took  the  name  which  he  used  as  a  cloak  to  hide 
tl>e  shame  of  his  latter  days. 

Lady  Wilde,  during  her  days  of  prosperity,  main- 
tained a  salon  at  her  Dublin  residence  in  iNIerrion 
Square.  As  the  beauty  of  which  she  had  been  inor- 
dinately proud  in  her  youth  faded,  she  tried  to  keep  up 
its  illusion  l^y  darkening  the  rooms  where  she  received 
her  guests.  She  plastered  her  face  with  powder  and 
wore  costumes  which  were  bizarre  and  ridiculous.  She 
was  very  tall,  and  when  she  appeared  in  a  crimson 
gown  of  voluminous  folds  and  covered  with  flounces  of 
Limerick  lace,  with  a  gold-embroidered  Oriental  sash 
and  wearing  a  gilt  crown  of  laurels,  quaint  jewelry 
on  her  bare  arms  and  on  her  broad  bosom  a  row  of 
miniature  brooches  with  family  portraits,  "giving  her 
the  appearance  of  a  walking  mausoleum,"  in  her  hands 
a  scent-bottle,  a  lace  handkerchief,  and  a  fan,  it  is  not 
strange  that  she  should  have  reminded  her  visitors  "of 
a  tragedy  queen  at  a  suburban  theatre."  A  lady  who 
attended  one  of  her  receptions  after  she  had  gone 
several   steps  down  on  the  social  ladder  remarks   that 


1/ 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

"she  had  a  horror  of  the  'miasma  of  the  commonplace' ; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  ideals,  on  heroes,  ancient  and 
modern,  and  thus  she  missed  much  that  was  lying  near 
her,  'close  to  her  feet,'  in  her  fervent  admiration  of  the 
dim,  the  distant,  and  the  unapproachable."  Once  when 
the  bailiffs  were  in  temporary  possession  of  her  house 
in  Merrion  Square,  a  lady  called  to  express  her  sym- 
pathy in  her  troubles,  but  found  her  lying  on  the  sofa 
reading  the  "Prometheus  Bound"  of  ^schylus,  from 
which  she  began  to  declaim  passages  with  exalted  en- 
ydisiasm,  quite  oblivious  of  the  domestic  storm. 

When  Lady  Wilde's  second  son  was  born,  her  dis- 
appointment that  he  was  not  a  girl  was  so  great  that 
she  dressed  him  like  a  girl  and  treated  him  as  if  he 
were  of  that  sex.  His  father  selected  for  him  a  series 
of  high-sounding  names.  He  was  christened  Oscar 
Fingal  O'Flaherty  Wills  Wilde.  In  later  years  it  irri- 
tated Wilde  to  be  reminded  that  he  had  such  a  pen- 
tameter name.^;  The  house  where  he  was  born  had  a 
beautiful  outlook,  overlooking  the  Merrion  Square  gar- 
dens. There  were  open  spaces  and  gardens  on  all 
sides.  There  was  one  younger  sister  born,  but  she 
died,  commemorated  by  Oscar  Wilde  in  the  sincere  and 
tender  poem,  "Requiescat,"  given  here  on  page  51. 

Wilde's  early  education  was  received  at  home.  He 
had  tutors;  he  was  taken  while  a  child  to  France  and 
there  acquired  that  knowledge  of  French  which  after- 
ward flowered  in  "Salome."  (He  used  to  travel  with 
his  father  in  quest  of  archaeological  treasures.  But  it 
may  be  easily  imagined  that  the  childhood  training  of 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

such  an  environment  was  not  particularly  conducive  to 
the  building  of  character.  His  father's  escapades  were 
a  scandal.  Loose  talk  was  common  even  in  his  mother's 
drawing-room.  )Yet  it  is  to  Wilde's  credit  that  Kis 
friend  and  biographer  was  able  to  say  of  him :  "During 
twenty  years  of  communion  with  the  world,  of  com- 
merce, b}^  profession  and  standing,  with  men  and  wom- 
en in  every  rank  of  life,  in  many  parts  and  places, 
I  never  met  a  man  more  entirely  pure  in  conversation, 
nor  one  more  disdainful  of  vice  in  its  vulgarity  and 
uncomeliness.  Never  there  came  the  faintest  suircrcstion 
of  an  unclean  thought  from  those  eloquent  and  inspir- 
ing lips ;  no  coarse  word  ever  soiled  them ;  and  if  be- 
hind the  wonderful  eyes  a  demon  was  indeed  crouching, 
madness  here  too  allied  itself  with  such  supreme  cun- 
ning of  dissimulation,  that  for  me,  till  the  very  end, 
he  remained  the  beau  ideal  of  a  gentleman  in  all  that 
that  word  implies  of  lofty  and  serene  moralit3\  Men  to- 
gether, after  wine,  the  world  over,  hasten  with  delight, 
in  conversation,  to  a  certain  class  of  pleasantry.  The 
topic  is  the  same  over  the  Turkish  cigarette  and  the 
white  cura^oa  as  over  the  clay  pipe  and  the  pint  of 
beer,  even  if  the  language  differ.  In  Oscar  Wilde's 
presence  it  was  understood  amongst  his  friends  that 
who  should  so  jest  would  commit  an  unpardonable  of- 
fence. .  .  .  Oscar  Wilde,  as  I  knew  him,  was  the  pur- 
est man  in  word  and  deed  that  I  have  ever  met." 

Lady  Wilde,  speaking  of  her  two  sons,  remarked  : 
"Willy  is  all  right,  but  Oscar  is  wonderful,  wondtrfui. 
He  can  do  an3'thing."     This  was  certainly  not  true  of 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

his  skill  in  mathematics.  For  when  at  the  age  of  eleven 
he  was  sent  to  the  Portora  Royal  School,  founded  by 
King  Charles  at  Enniskillen,  he  distinguished  himself 
more  by  wearing  his  tall  silk  hat  on  week-days  than 
by  arithmetic.  His  friend  Sherard,  indeed,  attributes 
much  of  the  recklessness  of  his  after-life  to  his  early 
incapacity  for  figures.  "Has  the  world's  history,"  he 
asks,  "any  record  of  an  extravagant  mathematician?" 
He  made  extraordinary  progress  in  his  classical  and 
English  studies  and  was  admitted  to  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  when  he  was  only  seventeen/  Three  years 
later  he  won  the  medal  founded  by  Bishop  Berkeley. 
The  subject  for  his  essay  was  "The  Fragments  of  the 
'  Greek  Comic  Poets."  This  little  gold  medal  later  helped 
to  tide  him  over  a  financial  crisis.  Unfortunately  he 
lost  the  pa^\^lbroker's  ticket  and  had  to  go  before  a 
magistrate  at  Marlborough  Police  Court  to  recover  the 
prize. 

Although  he  was  sixth  out  of  ten  candidates  to  re- 
ceive a  scholarship  at  Trinity,  he  renounced  it  and 
went  to  Oxford,  wliere  he  became  a  "demy"  at  ]\Iag- 
dalen  College, /"naving  been  elected,  in  the  words  of 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  "as  one  of  those  young  men 
elsewhere  called  scholars,  who  partake  of  the  founder's 
benefactions  and  succeed  in  their  order  to  vacant  fel- 
lowships." He  was  assured  an  annual  income  from 
the  college  of  ninety-five  pounds  for  a  term  of  five 
years.    } 

During  one  month  of  Wilde's  first  term  at  Oxford, 
John  Ruskin,  then  Slade  Professor  of  Fine  Arts,  was 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

giving  bi-wcckly  lectures  in  the  Oxford  Museum  on 
"the  Esthetic  and  JNIathematic  Scliools  of  Florence." 
Wilde  was  one  of  the  "ardent"  young  men  who  enjoyed 
his  breakfast  parties  and  discussion  in  Ruskin's  rooms 
at  Corpus;  he  also  attended  his  lectures  and  put  into 
active  practice  the  teachings  that  went  to  formulate 
the  "Gospel  of  Labor."  He  who  never  rode  to  hounds 
or  played  cricket  or  ventured  out  in  an  eight-oar  was 
seen  breaking  stones  on  the  road  and  lielping  to  fill 
Ruskin's  wheelbarrow.  It  must  have  been  a  pose,  but 
not  unwholesome. 

Fortune  was  at  this  time  kind  to  him.  He  had  the 
best  rooms  in  the  college,  "on  what  is  called  the  kitchen 
staircase,  having  a  lovely  view  over  the  river  Cherwell 
and  the  beautiful  iNIagdalen  walks  and  JMagdalen 
bridge."  The  panelled  Walls  of  the  two  connected 
sitting-rooms  were  adorned  with  engravings  for  the 
most  part  depicting  fair  ladies  unencumbered  with  dra- 
peries. He  had  an  abundance  of  rare  and  valuable 
pottery,  and  was  once  heard  to  exclaim,  "O  that  I 
could  live  up  to  my  blue  china !"  He  affected  a  sharp 
and  arrogant  wit.  What  it  was  may  be  judged  by  the 
brilliant  and  often  unkind  flashes  of  repartee  in  his 
society  comedies.  One  of  his  admirers  made  a  little 
book  of  his  sayings.  They  are  superficial,  light  as 
froth,  but  iridescent  with  sparkling  wit.  He  kept  open 
house,  and  the  undergraduates  who  dropped  in  were 
provided  with  punch  and  cigars.  His  Sunday  nights 
were  famous  for  their  conviviality. 

Wilde's    brother    Willy    could    play    the    piano,    but 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

Oscar  had  no  ear  whatever  for  music.  It  bored  him. 
Nevertheless,  in  order  to  preserve  his  pose  as  an  aes- 
thete he  had  to  write  about  music,  and  his  phrase  about 
a  splendid  scarlet  thing  bj'-  Dvorak  was  regarded  as 
particularly  characteristic.  He  also  attempted  to 
paint.  Some  one  once  asked  him  at  Magdalen  what  he 
would  do  if  he  had  to  earn  his  own  living.  "I  should  live 
in  a  garret,"  said  he,  "and  paint  beautiful  pictures." 

Once  while  he  was  at  Oxford  he  was  hazed.  A  party 
of  Philistines  fell  upon  him,  tied  him  up,  and  dragged 
him  to  the  top  of  a  hill.  Though  he  was  badl}^  bruised 
he  made  no  protest,  but  when  he  was  freed  he  brushed 
his  coat  and  remarked  gentlj^,  "Yes,  the  view  from  this 
hill  is  really  very  charming." 

In  1876  Wilde  took  a  first-class  in  "mods,"  as  the 
first  examination  for  a  degree  is  familiarly  called,  and 
in  the  same  year  he  began  to  contribute  to  various 
magazines  published  in  Dublin.  These  he  signed  with  all 
his  initials.  Many  of  these  poems  had  affected  Latin 
or  Greek  titles.  In  the  summer  vacation  of  1877,  he 
visited  Greece  in  company  with  J.  P.  Mahaffy ;  prob- 
ably the  influence  of  his  experiences  can  be  seen  in 
both  the  titles  and  the  topics  of  many  of  his  early 
verses.  While  in  Rome,  he  wrote  a  description  of  his 
visit  to  the  tomb  of  Keats.  This  was  published  in  the 
Irish  Monthly.  On  his  way  north  he  stopped  at  Ra- 
venna and  saw  the  stronghold  of  "huge-limbed  The- 
odoric,  the  Gothic  king,"  the  pillar  of  "the  bravest 
knight  of  France,  the  prince  of  chivalry,  the  lord  of 
war,  Gaston  de   Foix,",  the  tomb  of  Dante,   and  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

house  wlicre  Bjron  liked  to  dwell.  lie  returned  late 
to  Oxford  and  was  fined  £45  for  the  hreach  of  disei- 
})line,  but  when  the  following  3'car  he  afrain  took  a 
first  class  in  the  Final  Honors  examination  and  in 
June  won  the  Newdigate  prize  for  his  poem  "Ravenna" 
the  money  was  returned  to  him.  "Ravenna"  was  pub- 
lished in  1878  by  T.  Shrimpton  &  Sons,  and  has  since 
become  one  of  the  rarities  of  literature.  Those  curious 
about  such  things  have  discovered  in  its  beautiful  lines 
assort  of  prophecy  of  Wilde's  own  fame  and  fall. 

At  Oxford  Wilde  dressed  soberly  enough.  His  hair 
was  not  too  long.  But  when  he  went  up  to  London 
as  "Professor  of  Esthetics  and  Art  Critic,"  he  de- 
liberately attracted  attention  by  the  extravagance  of 
liis  attire.  He  w^ore  a  velvet  coat  and  knee-breeches,  a 
silk  shirt  with  turn-down  collar,  and  a  loose,  floating 
tie  of  unusual  shade.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a  lily 
or  a  sunflower.  His  tall  figure,  his  smooth-shaven  face, 
and  his  long  hair  made  him  quickly  notorious.  )  Punch 
represented  his  head,  with  vulgar  half-open  mouth,  at- 
tached to  a  huge  sunflower  on  a  table,  together  with 
a  cigarette  box,  an  ink-stand,  and  a  large  jar  labelled 
"Waste,"  while  underneath  are  the  lines: 

"^Esthete  of  yEsthetes! 
What's  in  a  name? 
The  poet  is  WILDE 

But  his  poetry's  tame." 

In  July,  1881,  David  Bogue  announced  in  the  Athe- 
na um  "Poems  by  Oscar  Wilde :  Printed  on  Dutch  Hand- 
made  Paper  and  Handsomely   Bound   in   Parchment." 


xxll  INTRODUCTION 

It  was  a  crown  octavo,  and  its  price  was  ten  shillings 
sixpence.  It  was  certainly  an  ^Esthetic  volume.  Its 
contents  were  made  up  from  his  contributions  to  vari- 
ous periodicals,  especially  Edmund  Yates's  Time  and 
the  World.  Two  of  the  sonnets,  "To  Portia"  and 
"Queen  Henrietta  Maria,"  were  inspired  by  Ellen 
Terry,  who  was  delighted  with  them  and  never  re- 
nounced her  friendship   for  their  author. 

The  critics  did  not  spare  the  volume.  The  Saturday 
Review  declared  that  the  verses  "belonged  to  a  class 
which  is  the  special  terror  of  the  reviewers — the  poetr}^ 
which  is  neither  good  nor  bad,  which  calls  for  neither 
praise  nor  ridicule,  and  in  which  we  search  in  vain  for 
any  personal  touch  of  thought  or  music.  ...  It  is 
not  without  traces  of  cleverness,  but  it  is  marred  every- 
where by  imitation,  insincerity,  and  bad  taste."  The 
critic  could  not  forgive  Wilde  for  thinking  that  "the 
meadowsweet  and  the  wood  anemone  bloom  at  the  same 
time,  that  that  shy  and  isolated  flower,  the  harebell, 
"breaks  across  the  woodlands  in  masses,  like  a  sudden 
flush  of  sea,  and  that  owls  are  commonly  met  with  in 
mid-ocean."  Categorical  criticisms  of  this  kind  are 
always  dangerous.  Here  in  America  at  least  the  hare- 
bell often  blooms  in  masses,  and  the  great  Northern  owl 
which  makes  midwinter  visits  South  might  happen  occa- 
sionally to  be  driven  out  to  sea. 

The  Athenceum  gave  the  volume  careful  but  likewise 
unfavorable  criticism,  declaring  that  though  Mr.  Wilde 
had  a  keen  perception  of  some  aspects  of  natural 
beauty,  and  single  lines  conveyed  striking  and  accurate 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

pictures,  still  '*its  worst  faults  nrv  .'irtifitialit v  and  in- 
sincerity, and  an  cxtrava<r;int  accentuation  of  whatever 
in  modern  verse  most  closely  approaches  the  estilo  cidto 
of  the  sixteenth  century."  The  conclusion  was  that 
his  poems,  when  their  temporary  notoriety  was  ex- 
hausted, would  find  a  place  on  the  shelves  of  only  those 
who  hunt  after  the  curious  in  literature. 

Punch,  after  declaring  that  Wilde  had  followctl  the 
example  of  ]\Jr.  Lambert  Streyke  in  "The  Colonel"  in 
publishing  a  book  of  poems  for  the  benefit  of  his  fol- 
lowers and  his  own,  declared  that  the  cover  was  "con- 
summate, the  paper  distinctly  precious,  and  the  type 
utterly  too.  .  .  .  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  origi- 
nalit}'  about  the  binding,  but  that  is  more  than  can  be 
siiid  for  the  inside  of  the  volume.  jMr.  Wilde  may  be 
aesthetic,  but  he  is  not  original."  The  review  ended  l)y 
calling  it  a  volume  of  echoes.  "It  is  Swinburne  and 
water."  On  the  other  hand,  Oscar  Browning  in  the 
Academy  expressed  his  conviction  that  England  was 
enriched  by  a  new  poet. 

Popularly  the  work  was  a  success.     Four  editions 
were  sold  in  a  month.     It  also  sold  widely  in  America. 
In  the  latter  country  some  curiosity  had  been  aroused 
in    Wilde    as    the    leader    of    the    ^Esthetic    movement. 
America  had  heard  of  "Patience,"  and  it  was  supposed 
men  would  not  be  averse  to  seeing  Bunthorni'   in   the        , 
ilesh.      Arrangements   were   accordingly   made    for   the\     ' 
poet  to  visit  America  and  deliver  lectures.     He  sailed  /     x 
in  December,  and  on  arriving  in  New  York  confirmed 
the  pop_ulHr  impression  thfit  he  was  to  the  last  degree 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

conceited,  by  remarking  that  he  was  disappointed  with 
the  Atlantic.  It  was  probably  meant  for  a  humorous 
comment — certainly  not  one  to  be  elaborately  defended, 
as  his  biographer  attempts  to  do.  He  was  interviewed, 
and  informed  the  reporter  that  he  proposed  to  lecture 
on  the  Renaissance,  which  he  defined  as  "a  revival  of 
the  intimate  study  of  the  correlation  of  all  the  arts." 
The  reporter  asked  him  if  he  called  aestheticism  a 
philosophy.  His  answer  was :  "Most  certainly  it  is  a 
philosophy.  It  is  the  study  of  what  may  be  found  in 
art.  It  is  the  pursuit  of  the  secret  of  life.  Whatever 
there  is  in  all  art  that  represents  the  eternal  truth  is 
an  expression  of  the  great  underlying  truth.  So  far 
aestheticism  may  be  held  to  be  the  study  of  truth  in 
art." 

His  first  lecture,  given  in  dickering  Hall,  was  a 
success  not  only  in  itself  but  in  the  class  of  audience 
attracted.  Major  Pond  then  made  arrangements  to 
conduct  a  series  of  lectures  throughout  the  United 
States.  In  Boston,  instead  of  wearing  his  aesthetic 
costume,  he  appeared  in  ordinary  evening  dress.  But 
sixty  Harvard  students,  who  had  engaged  front  seats, 
trooped  in  in  single  file,  each  wearing  a  swallow-tailed 
coat,  knee-breeches,  a  flowing  wig,  a  green  tie,  and  a 
large  lily,  and  carrying  a  huge  sunflower.  The  lec- 
turer was  equal  to  the  situation.  He  was  always  a 
gentleman,  and  his  dignity,  courtesy,  and  cleverness 
in  dealing  with  their  rudeness  entirely  won  his  audi- 
ence, who  had  come  expecting  some  bear-baiting.  His 
crowning  touch  was  to  offer  the  young  boors  the  statue 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

of  a  Greek  atlilete  to  stand  in  their  gymnasium.  The 
same  trick  was  phiyed  by  students  at  Rochester,  but 
again  Wilde  came  off  best.  He  told  his  American  au- 
diences some  wholesome  truths  which  nmst  have  had  an 
influence  upon  the  development  of  good  taste.  At 
Omaha  he  described  American  furniture  as  "not  hon- 
estly made  and  out  of  character."  At  Louisville  he 
designated  American  houses  as  "ill-designed,  decorated 
shabbily,  and  in  bad  taste."  At  Denver  he  lectured  to 
a  rough  audience  and  was  told  that  in  the  hall  where  he 
spoke  a  man  had  been  shot  the  week  previous  while 
turning  his  back  on  the  crowd  for  the  purpose  of  ex- 
amining a  chromo-lithograph.  Wilde  added  the  char- 
acteristic comment,  "This  shows  that  people  should 
never  look  at  chromo-lithographs."  At  Toronto  he  at- 
tracted an  audience  of  more  than  a  thousand  persons. 
At  Halifax  a  reporter  thus  described  him:  "The  apos- 
tle had  no  lily,  nor  yet  a  sunflower.  He  wore  a  velvet 
jacket,  which  seemed  to  be  a  good  jacket.  He  had  an 
ordinary  necktie,  and  wore  a  linen  collar,  about  num- 
ber eighteen,  on  a  neck  half  a  dozen  sizes  smaller.  His 
legs  were  in  trousers,  and  his  boots  were  apparently 
the  product  of  New  York  art,  judging  by  their  pointed 
toes.  His  hair  is  the  color  of  straw,  slightly  leonine, 
and  when  not  looked  after  goes  climbing  all  over  his 
features."  Apparently  that  reporter  was  color  blind, 
for  when  Wilde  and  Mr.  (now  Sir)  Rennell  Rodd  sat 
in  the  box  at  the  first  New  York  performance  of 
"lolanthe,"  the  poet's  hair  was  auburn  brown,  long, 
and  womanly.      The   writer   remembers   especially   the 


•w'- 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

splendid  opulence  of  his  heavy  fur  coat,  but  alas !  not 
a  word  that  he  spoke  clings  to  the  memory. 

An  American  who  was  a  guest  together  with  Wilde 
at  a  dinner  given  by  Mme.  Modjeska  in  Boston,  became 
annoyed  at  the  Irishman's  supercilious  attitude  toward 
things  American,  and  in  private  conversation  after 
leaving  the  hotel  charged  him  with  being  a  humbug. 
"I  know  as  well  as  you  yourself,"  said  the  American, 
"that  you  are  an  advance  poster  for  Gilbert  and  Sul- 
livan's *Patience.'  Indeed,  I  am  responsible  for  your 
being  over  here." 

"What  do  you  mean.^"  asked  Wilde. 

"Well,  Miss  Helen  Lenoir,  D'Oyley  Carte's  Ameri- 
can agent,  asked  me  how  the  American  public  could  be 
brought  to  understand  the  Esthetic  craze,  and  I  sug- 
gested that  you  should  be  hired  to  give  a  course  of  lec- 
tures over  here  in  the  costume  of  an  Esthete,  w^th  a 
sunflower  in  your  buttonhole  and  'a  poppy  or  a  lily  in 
your  mediaeval  hand.'  She  cabled  that  evening  to 
D'Oyley  Carte,  and  here  you  are !" 

"You  are  perfectly  right,"  said  Wilde;  "that  is  the 
reason  of  my  being  here,  and  I  am  a  humbug,  as  far  as 
^Estheticism  is  concerned.  But  I  was  paid  a  large  price 
to  come.  The  son  of  a  poor  Irish  knight,  I  found  my- 
self rather  lost  at  Oxford.  The  ^Esthetic  wave  ran 
high,  and  I  got  on  its  crest.  I  know  that  my  ability 
will  show  itself  and  all  this  will  ho  forgotten." 

After  this  frank  talk,  the  two  men  supped  together 
and  parted  good  friends. 

A  characteristic   anecdote  may  be   added  here.      A 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

young  American  girl  happened  to  use  the  word  '*nic-e.'* 
"My  dear  young  lady,"  exclaimed  \YiIde,  "such  a  nasty 
word!"  "But,  Mr.  Wilde,"  protested  the  girl,  "do 
you  think  'nasty'  is  a  'nice'  word?" 

It  was  often  evident  that  Wilde  affected  being  af- 
fected, and  this  was  particularly  shown  in  his  choice  of 
adjectives.  One  of  them  was  "tedious."  It  represented 
the  acme  of  ennui. 

Edgar  xVllan  Poe,  according  to  Wilde,  was  America's 
chief  poet,  but  he  thought  Whitman,  "if  not  a  poet,  at 
least  a  man  who  sounds  a  strong  note,  perhaps  neither 
prose  nor  poetry  but  something  of  his  o\vn  that  is 
grand,  original,  and  unique."  He  went  over  to  Cam- 
den to  call  on  Whitman  and  was  distressed  by  the 
squalor  of  his  appearance  as  he  sat  in  the  untidy  lit- 
tle room  on  Mickle  Street,  with  dust  so  thick  that  there 
was  no  clean  spot  to  sit  down  on.  Nor  was  Whitman 
impressed  b}^  the  visitor. 

While  in  Philadelphia  Wilde  secured  a  publisher  for 
Rodd's  poems,  and  wrote  a  preface  to  the  collection. 
The  pseudo-aesthetic  style  in  which  the  volume  appeared 
is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  publishing,  and  the  volume 
is  now  rare.  It  resulted  in  breaking  the  friendship  be- 
tween the  two  men.  In  Chicago,  Wilde  publicly  praised 
the  work  of  a  young  Irish  sculptor,  John  Donoghue, 
who  had  been  starving,  and  thus  brought  hliii  into 
vogue.  In  New  York  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  bunco 
steerers,  who  in  a  game  of  poker  robbed  him  of  all  his 
ready  money.  He  had  also  given  them  a  check,  but  he 
hurriedly  drove  to  the  bank  and  stopped  its  j)aynient. 


'/ 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

Among  Wilde's  ambitions  in  coming  to  America  was 
to  see  his  play  "Vera"  produced.  His  plans  fell 
through,  and  when  a  year  later  it  was  brought  out,  it 
met  with  such  a  cold  reception  that  it  was  immediately 
withdrawn.  (^He  returned  to  London  apparently  not 
much  richer  than  when  he  left  it,  but  he  had  discarded 
his  peculiar  pose.  He  had  begun  a  new  "period"  in 
his  life.  He  proceeded  to  Paris  and  began  to  adopt 
the  elegances  of  the  stylish  young  men  of  that  city.  He 
is  said  to  have  modelled  the  dressing  of  his  hair  after  a 
bust  of  Nero  in  the  Louvrey  He  had  a  suite  of  rooms 
on  the  second  floor  of  the  Hotel  Voltaire  on  the  Quai 
Voltaire,  overlooking  the  Seine  and  the  Louvre.  When 
a  friend  remarked  on  the  beauty  of  the  view,  Wilde  re- 
plied: "Oh,  that  is  altogether  immaterial  except  to  the 
innkeeper,  who  of  course  charges  it  in  the  bill.  A  gen- 
tleman never  looks  out  of  the  window." 

In  spite  of  his  references  to  Nature  in  his  poems,  he 
affected  a  disregard  of  Nature  herself.  This  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  utterances  of  Vivian  in  "The  Decay  of 
Lying."  Vivian,  who  is  the  poet  himself,  says:  "My 
own  experience  is  that  the  more  we  study  Art  the  less 
we  care  for  Nature.  What  Art  really  reveals  to  us  is 
Nature's  lack  of  design,  her  curious  crudities,  her  ex- 
traordinary monotony,  her  absolutely  unfinished  condi- 
tion. .  .  .  Art  is  our  spirited  protest,  our  gallant  at- 
tempt to  teach  Nature  her  proper  place ;"  and  then  with 
characteristic  humor  he  says:  "Nature  is  so  uncom- 
fortable. Grass  is  hard  and  lumpy  and  damp,  and  full 
of  dreadful  insects.     Why,  even  Morris's  poorest  work- 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

man  could  make  you  a  more  comfortable  seat  than  the 
^ole  of  Nature  can." 

I  In  Paris  he  was  welcomed  into  literary,  artistic,  and 
theatrical  circlets.  But,  as  in  London,  his  humor  was 
taken  seriously/  as  for  instance  where  he  was  heard  to 
remark  that  Swinburne  was  the  only  Englishman  who 
had  ever  read  Balzac,  and  he  declared  that  he  used  to 
spend  hours  at  the  Louvre  in  rapt  admiration  of  the 
Venus  of  Melos.  De  Gpncourt  and  Daudet  simply  couhi 
not  understand  him.  /He  let  it  be  known  that  when  he 
wrote  he  wore  a  white  gown  with  a  monkish  cowl,  in  this 
respect  imitating  Balzac.)  He  also  imitated  him  in 
carrying  an  ivory  stick  decorated  with  turquoises  and 
in  having  his  hair  curled.  While  living  thus  in  Paris 
he  wrote  his  play  "The  Duchess  of  Padua,"  which  he 
intended  for  Mary  Anderson,  but  which  that  actress  de- 
clined. William  Archer  declared  that  in  this  play  Os- 
car Wilde  was  a  dramatic  poet  of  high  order;  yet  as 
an  acting  drama  it  has  never  been  a  success.  He  also 
wrote  in  the  Hotel  Voltaire  that  masterpiece  of  artifi- 
ciality "The  Sphinx,"  included  in  the  present  edition  at 
page  234,  which  contains  one  line  at  least  memorable 
in  its  personal  application : 

You  wake  in  me  each  bestial   sense,  you  make  u\v  what  I 
would  nut  be. 

R.  H.  Sherard,  who  became  intimate  witli  liim  at  tin's 
time,  says  of  him:  "The  man  who  was  afterward 
branded  as  a  corrupter  of  3'outh,  exerted  on  me  as  a 
young    man    an    influence    altogether    beneficial.   .   .   . 


^ 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

The  example  of  his  purity  of  life  in  such  a  city  as 
Paris,  of  his  absolute  decency  of  language,  of  his  con- 
versation, in  which  never  an  improper  suggestion  in- 
truded, the  loftier  ideals  that  he  pursued,  the  elegance 
and  refinement  which  endowed  him,  would  have  com- 
pelled even  the  most  perverse  and  dissolute  to  some  re- 
straint." 

Sherard  declares  that  he  was  good-heartedness  per- 
sonified, and  tells  many  stories  to  illustrate  how  he 
would  sacrifice  himself  for  his  friends.  At  the  same 
time,  when  he  was  once  asked  if  he  would  go  to  the  res- 
cue of  a  man  about  to  throw  himself  into  the  river,  he 
declared  that  it  would  be  an  act  of  the  grossest  im- 
pertinence to  do  so ;  and  so  in  the  same  spirit  he  ap- 
parently made  no  attempt  to  save  the  poet  Maurice 
Rolliat  from  ruining  himself  by  drugs.  Yet  no  one  is 
known  to  have  seen  Wilde  himself  drink  to^excess.  He 
smoked  all  the  time,  and  is  reported  by  his  friend  to 
have  been  found  at  midnight  searching  in  the  grate  for 
cigarette-ends  when  his  supply  had  given  out ;  yet  when 
suddenly  an,d  wholly  deprived  of  tobacco  he  made  no 
complaint.  His  aversion  to  phj^sical  repulsiveness  was 
perhaps  more  than  a  pose.  He  complained  that  it 
caused  him  actual  pain.  He  had  the  same  physical  re- 
pulsion at  the  presence  of  dogs, — they  are  so  tedious, 
he  would  say.  His  w^himsical  way  of  saying  things 
often  had  real  wit.  Thus  he  once  remarked,  "I  liave 
been  working  on  my  proofs  all  the  morning — and  took 
out  a  comma."  Some  one  asked  him,  "And  in  the  after- 
noon?" and  he  replied,  "Well,  I  put  it  back  again." 


/  i 


INTRODUCTION  xxxl 

r 

While  living  in  Parts'lie  spent  money  like  water — 
while  he  had  it.  lie  managed  to  dispose  of  his  small 
Irish  estate.  When  the  money  was  exhausted,  he  had 
to  leave  the  gay  capital.  He  first  tried  lecturing  in 
London ;  then  he  went  to  provincial  towns  with  his  ad- 
dress on  *'The  House  Beautiful."  At  this  time  many 
of  his  possessions  were  at  the  pawnbroker's,  but  he  al- 
ways dressed  well  and  looked  prosperous.  Though  ad- 
verHsed  Jis  "the  Gre't  /Esthete,"  he  refused  to  make 
any  ridiculous  exhibition  of  himself,  and  what  he  said 
was  perfectly  dignified  and  elevating.  "Tall  and  grace- 
ful and  presenting  a  j'outhful  appearance,"  wrote  a 
provincial  journalist,  "he  delivers  his  lecture  with  clear, 
distinct  articulation,  never  hesitating  for  a  word,  nor 
striving  after  flights  of  eloquence,  but  handling  his  sub- 
ject with  an  amount  of  assurance  and  self-possession 
that  gives  you  the  impression  that  he  must  be  quite  as 
high  an  authority  as  Morris  or  Ruskin." 

On  May  29,  1884,  Oscar  Wilde  was  married  to  Con- 
stance Mary  Lloyd.  After  a  curiously  bizarre  wedding 
the  couple  went  to  Paris  for  their  honeymoon.  When 
they  returned  to  London,  Mrs.  Wilde's  dowry  allowed 
them  to  take  a  house  in  Tite  Street,  Chelsea.  Whistler 
took  charge  of  decorating  it.  But  it  was  incumbent 
on  Wilde  himself  to  work;  while  doing  some  lecturing 
and  writing  in  pure  literature  he  also  engaged  in  .jour- 
nalistic hack-work.  His  delightful  fairy-tales,  later 
published  under  the  title  "Tlie  Happy  Prince  and  Other 
Tales,"  were  written  at  this  time.  He  went  over  to 
Dublin  to  give  two  lectures,  but  they  were  financial  fail- 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

ures.  He  was  reduced  to  such  straits  that  his  wife 
was  compelled  to  borrow  money  to  buy  her  boots.  He 
was  temporarily  rescued  from  this  tragedy  of  circum- 
stances by  his  appointment  as  editor  of  The  Woman*s 
World.  No  tobacco  was  allowed  in  any  part  of  the 
building;  yet  Wilde  faithfully  performed  every  duty 
imposed  upon  him.  His  mother  and  his  wife  both  con- 
tributed to  his  magazine.  He  also  secured  articles  by 
Ouida,  Carmen  Sylva,  Miss  Olive  Schreiner,  Miss  Marie 
Corelli,  and  many  other  of  the  best  writers  of  the  day. 
But  he  came  to  detest  journalism. 

The  famous  essay,  "The  Soul  of  Man  under  Social- 
ism," appeared  in  1891.  His  other  chief  productions 
at  this  time  were  "Intentions"  and  the  "House  of  Pome- 
granates." He  was  asked  by  the  editor  of  Lippincotfs 
Magazine  for  the  manuscript  of  a  complete  story.  He 
dashed  off  "The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray."  The  hon- 
orarium for  it  was  most  welcome,  but  the  novel  was  not 
regarded  as  a  success.  Some  people  criticised  it  as  im- 
moral. Walter  Pater  reviewed  it  in  the  Bookman,  but 
did  not  express  his  real  opinion  of  it.  He  certainly  did 
not  agree  with  those  who  called  it  "an  immoral  work 
wilfully  written  to  corrupt." 

The  following  year  his  collection  of  short  stories, 
which  had  been  published  the  preceding  July,  under 
the  title,  "Lord  Arthur  Saville's  Crime,"  began  to 
make  a  hit,  having  been  favorably  reviewed.  On  the 
twentieth  of  February  his  comedy,  "Lady  Windermere's 
Fan,"  made  its  great  success  at  the  St.  James  Thea- 
tre.    The  author  was  called  before  the  curtain.     He 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

came  out  with  a  half-smoked  cigarette  in  his  fingers  ami 
with  incredible  impudence  said  that  he  was  i)leased  that 
they  had  enjoyed  themselves,  for  that  was  what  he 
himself  could  say.  Nevertheless,  all  London  flocked 
to  hear  the  new  comedy,  and  during  the  next  three  years 
he  wrote  three  other  plays,  "A  Woman  of  No  Impor- 
tance," "An  Ideal  Husband,"  and  "The  Importance  of 
Being  in^'Earnest."  There  was  no  more  worry  about 
money  ;  it  poured  in  upon  him.  And  .with,  money  began 
that  downward  Gadarean  course  of  degeneracy,  to 
which  high  living,  too  much  stimulant,  and  the  intoxi- 
cation of  success  condemned  him.  ^ 

In  March,  1895,  Wilde  brought  a  suit  for  libel 
against  the  Marquess  of  Queensberry.  In  "De  Pro- 
fundis"  he  says :  "The  one  disgraceful,  unpardonable, 
and  to  all  time  contemptible  action  of  my  life  was  to 
allow  myself  to  appeal  to  society  for  help  and  protec- 
tion. .  .  .  Society  turned  on  me  and  said,  *Have  you 
been  living  all  this  time  in  defiance  of  my  laws,  and  do 
you  now  appeal  to  these  laws  for  protection?  You 
shall  have  these  laws  exercised  to  the  full.  You  shall 
abide  by  what  you  have  appealed  to.'  "  Oscar  Wilde 
drove  down  to  the  Old  Bailey  in  a  brougham  and  with 
servants  in  livery.  ''  He  almost  won  his  case.  He  made 
a  fatal  admission.  The  Marquess  was  acquitted.  Wilde 
was  privately  advised  to  leave  the  country.  He  was 
either  too  insane  or  too  proud  to  take  advantage  of  the 
delay  in  effecting  his  arrest.  /  At  his  first  trial  the  jury 
disagreed.  He  was  released  on  bail  of  £2500,  t.liree- 
fourths  of  whirli  was   provided  by  a   young  nobKniaii 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

who  scarcely  knew  him.  That  night  he  was  refused  ad- 
mittance at  several  London  hotels,  and  finally  after  mid- 
night he  wandered  to  his  mother's  house  in  Oakley 
Street  and  begged  shelter.  His  brother,  w^ith  oddly 
mixed  metaphor,  says,  "He  came  tapping  with  his  beak 
against  the  window-pane  and  fell  down  on  my  threshold 
like  a  w^ounded  stag."{  A  forced  sale  of  his  possessions 
had  resulted  in  his  ruin.  It  seemed  that  there  was  no 
one  to  protect  his  interests.  His  manuscripts  were  scat- 
tered on  the  floor ;  many  of  them  were  hopelessly  \ost.J 
It  was  called  a  pillage  rather  than  a  sale.  A  picture 
by  Whistler  was  sold  for  six  pounds. 

On  May  25,  1895,  Wilde  was  found  guilty  and  sen- 
tenced to  two  years'  hard  labor.  "There  had  been  six 
counts  against  him,"  says  Robert  Sherard.  "He  was 
asked  after  his  release,  by  a  very  old  friend,  as  to  the 
justice  of  the  finding,  and  he  said:  'Five  of  the  counts 
referred  to  matters  v/ith  which  I  had  absolutely  nothing 
to  do.  There  was  some  foundation  for  one  of  the 
counts.'  'But  why,  then,'  asked  his  friend,  'did  you  not 
instruct  your  defenders.?'  'That  would  have  meant  be- 
traying a  friend,'  said  Oscar.  Circumstances  which 
have  since  transpired — what  for  the  rest  was  never  in 
doubt  in  the  minds  of  those  who  heard  it  made — have 
proved  the  absolute  truth  of  this  statement." 

For  some  months  he  was  in  Wandsworth  Prison,  and 
here  his  wife  came  to  visit  him.  She  was  so  shocked  by 
the  change  in  his  appearance  that  she  could  not  even 
speak  to  him.  She  went  to  live  in  Genoa,  but  the  fol- 
lowing year  she  travelled  all  the  way  back  to  London 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

to  break  to  him  the  news  of  his  mother's  death.  He 
never  saw  her  again.  Though  she  liad  tokl  a  friend 
that  it  was  her  intention  to  live  with  him,  this  intention 
was  delayed  and  she  died  in  April,  1898.  ■ 

Later  Wilde  was  transferred  to  Reading  Jail,  and 
here  he  went  tlirough  the  transformation  which  is  so 
poignantly  described  in  that  classic  bit  of  autobiog- 
raphy, "De  Profundis."  Only  those  who  can  believe 
that  such  a  man  was  too  far  sunken  to  suffer  would 
ever  for  a  moment  accept  the  theory  that  has  been  put 
forward  that  tliis  is  not  a  sincere  confession.. 

On  his  release  he  left  P^ngland  forever.  Taking  the 
name  of  Sebastian  iVlelmoth,  he  went  to  the  village  of 
Berneval.  He  had  a  sufficient  amount  of  money  to  live 
with  great  economy.  But  he  was  reckless  with  it,  giv- 
ing it  away,  entertaining  school  children  and  poets.  He 
found  it  extremely  difficult  to  write  under  his  assumed 
name;  but  he  despatched  two  letters  to  the  Chronicle: 
one  entitled  "The  Case  of  Warden  ]\Iartin,''  which  was  a 
plea  for  the  better  treatment  of  children  and  a  humaner 
administration  of  punishment;  the  other  with  its 
Tolstoian  title,  "Don't  Read  This  if  You  Want  to  be 
Happy."  At  Berneval  he  also  wrote  "The  Ballad  of 
Reading  Gaol,"  expending  upon  it  every  possible  care. 
This  was  his  last  contribution  to  literature.  It  was 
published  anonymously  in  1898,  and  created  a  profound 
sensation.  Parts  of  it  were  compared  to  Dante's  "In- 
ferno." 

He  left  France  for  Naples,  where  he  expected  to  find 
friendship,  hospitality,  and  even  luxury  as  a  guest  of 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

the  wealthy  young  man  whose  name  was  scandalously 
connected  with  his.  But  in  this  he  was  disappointed. 
He  found  himself  stranded  in  Italy,  and  in  his  despair 
he  turned  against  every  one,  even  writing  abusive  let- 
ters to  the  most  faithful  of  all  his  friends,  Robert  Ross, 
whom  he  had  eulogized  in  "De  Profundis."  He  returned 
to  Paris,  where,  unable  to  pay  his  bills  at  his  lodgings, 
he  was  literally  turned  out  into  the  street.  The  story 
of  his  last  days  is  pitiful  in  the  extreme.  He  would  sip 
absinthe  all  day  and  write  all  night.  He  suffered 
agonies  with  his  head.  A  famous  surgeon  was  men- 
tioned as  willing  to  perform  some  operation  of  relief, 
but  his  fee  was  prohibitive.  "Ah,  well,"  said  Wilde,  "I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  die  beyond  my  means." 

Before  his  death  his  faithful  friend  Robert  Ross 
brought  a  Catholic  priest  to  receive  him  into  the 
Church.  He  died  of  cerebro-spinal  meningitis  on  the 
afternoon  of  November  30,  1900,  and  was  buried  in 
Bagneux  Cemetery. 

Oscar  Wilde  had  written  the  Biblical  drama  "Sa- 
lome" in  French  for  Madame  Bernhardt.  When  his 
ruin  was  effected,  she  refused  to  have  part  or  parcel 
to  do  with  it.  It  was  translated  into  English  by  Lord 
Alfred  Douglas,  but  because  of  the  censorship  regu- 
lations forbidding  the  production  of  plays  on  Bible 
subjects,  it  was  circulated  only  in  book  forai.  When 
Richard  Strauss  set  it  to  music,  it  became  recognized 
/as  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  modern  literature,  and 
this,  together  with  his  two  great  prison-productions,  be- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

gan  his  rehabilitation.  The  hypocritical  hysteria  that 
caused  persons  no  better  than  himself  to  hound  him  aiul 
persecute  him  died  down.  'Whether  his  crime  was  due 
to  insanity  or  to  mere  moral  perversity,  the  treatment 
to  which  he  w^as  subjected  was  simply  outrageous.  The 
repentant  world  is  now  ready  to  take  him  at  his  real 
value,  with  pity  for  his  weakness  and  his  sins,  but  with 

admiration  for  liis  brilliant  ^nms.-     

\  He  was,  indeed,  as  he  called  himself,  "A  Lord  of 
Language."  He  had  a  beautiful  clear  style  at  his  best. 
His  poetry,  though  sometimes  artificial,  sometimes  in- 
jured by  bombast  and  by  a  curious  lack  of  taste,  where 
he  will  spoil  or  at  least  injure  a  fine  conception  by  a 
sad  anticlimax,  has  the  elements  of  beauty,  and  beauty/ 
was  what  he  worshipped.  He  made  Art  his  goddess  ana 
proclaimed  himself  her  prophet:  "I  altered  the  minds 
of  men  and  the  colors  of  things:  there  wiis  nothing  I 
said  or  did  that  did  not  make  people  wonder.  I  took 
the  drama,  the  most  objective  form  known  to  art,  ami 
made  it  as  personal  a  mode  of  expression  as  the  lyric  or 
the  sonnet ;  at  the  same  time  I  widened  its  range  and 
enriched  its  characterization.  Drama,  novel,  j)oem  in 
prose,  poem  in  rhyme,  subtle  or  fantastic  dialogue, 
whatever  I  touched  I  made  beautiful  in  a  new  mode  of 
beauty;  to  truth  itself  I  gave  what  is  false  no  less  than 
what  is  true  as  its  rightful  province,  and  showed  that 
the  false  and  the  true  are  merely  forms  of  intellectual 
existence.  I  treated  art  as  the  supreme  reality  and  life^ 
as  a  mere  modf  of  fiction.     I  awoke  the  imagination  of 


xxxvlii  INTRODUCTION 

my  century  so  that  it  created  myth  and  legend  around 
me.  I  summed  up  all  systems  in  a  phrase  and  all  ex- 
istence in  an  epigram." 

Taken  all  in  all,  Oscar  Wilde  was  one  of  the  greatest 
men  that  Ireland  ever  produced.  For  in  the  short  span 
of  his  life  he  showed  himself  a  master  in  many  domains 
of  art.  What  he  might  have  accomplished  had  his  bril- 
liant career  not  been  interrupted,  no  one  can  tell.  But 
the  body  of  his  work,  whether  in  poetry,  in  criticism,  in 
the  drama,  in  fiction,  or  in  the  essay,  while  not 
extraordinarily  extensive,  has  extraordinary  merit.  He 
had  the  soul  of  a  poet,  and  the  good  that  he  did  vastly 
outweighs  the  evil  that  may  and  should  be  forgotten, 
even  as  we  trust  it  has  been  forgiven. 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole, 

Boston,  Mass., 

September,  1913. 


f        RAVENNA 

MDCCCLXXVIII 


TO   MY    FRIEND 
GEORGE    FLEMING 

AUTHOR    OF    "the   NILE    NOVEL  "    AND    "  MIRAGE '* 


.X 


RAVENNA 


A   YEAR  ago  I  breathed  the  Itahan  air, — 
And  yet,  nietliinks  this  northern  Spring  is  fair,- 
These  fields  made  golden  with  the  flower  of  March, 
The  throstle  singing  on  the  feathered  larch. 
The  cawing  rooks,  the  wood-doves  fluttering  by. 
The  little  clouds  that  race  across  the  sky ; 
And  fair  the  violet's  gentle  drooping  head, 
The  primrose,  pale  for  love  uncomfortcd, 
The  rose  that  burgeons  on  the  climbing  briar. 
The  crocus-bed  (that  seems  a  moon  of  fire 
Round-girdled  with  a  purj)le  marriage- ring)  ; 
And  all  the  flowers  of  our  English  Spring, 
Fond  snow-drops,  and  the  bright-starred  daff'odil. 
Up  starts  the  lark  beside  the  murmuring  mill. 
And  breaks  the  gossamer-threads  of  early  dew ; 
And  down  the  river,  like  a  flame  of  blue. 
Keen  as  an  arrow  flics  the  water-king. 
While  the  brown  linnets  in  the  greenwood  sing. 

A  year  ago ! — it  seems  a  little  time 
Since  last  I  saw  that  lordly  southern  clime. 
Where  flower  and  fruit  to  purple  radiance  blow. 
And  like  bright  lamps  the  fabled  apples  glow. 

3 


4  RAVENNA 

Full  Spring  it  was — and  by  rich  flowering  vines, 

Dark  olive-groves  and  noble  forest-pines, 

I  rode  at  will;  the  moist  glad  air  was  sweet. 

The  white  road  rang  beneath  my  horse's  feet. 

And  musing  on  Ravenna's  ancient  name, 

I  watched  the  day  till,  marked  with  wounds  of  flame, 

The  turquoise  sky  to  burnished  gold  was  turned. 

O  how  my  heart  with  boyish  passion  burned, 
When  far  away  across  the  sedge  and  mere 
I  saw  that  Holy  City  rising  clear. 
Crowned  with  her  crown  of  towers ! — On  and  on 
I  galloped,  racing  with  the  setting  sun. 
And  ere  the  crimson  afterglow  was  passed, 
I  stood  within  Ravenna's  walls  at  last ! 


n 

How  strangely  still!  no  sound  of  life  or  joy 
Startles  the  air ;  no  laughing  shepherd-boy 
Pipes  on  his  reed,  nor  ever  through  the  day 
Comes  the  glad  sound  of  children  at  their  play: 
O  sad,  and  sweet,  and  silent!  surely  here 
A  man  might  dwell  apart  from  troublous  fear, 
Watching  the  tide  of  seasons  as  they  flow 
From  amorous  Spring  to  Winter's  rain  and  snow, 
And  have  no  thought  of  sorrow ; — here,  indeed, 
Are  Lethe's  waters,  and  that  fatal  weed 
Which  makes  a  man  forget  his  fatherland. 


RAVENNA 

Ay !  amid  lotus-meadows  dost  tlioii  stand, 
Like  Proserpine,  witli  poppy-laden  head, 
Guarding  the  holy  ashes  of  the  dead. 
For  though  thy  brood  of  warrior  sons  hath  ceased, 
Thy  noble  dead  are  with  thee ! — they  at  least 
Are  faithful  to  thine  honour: — guard  tliLni  well, 
O  childless  city !  for  a  mighty  spell, 
To  wake  men's  hearts  to  dreams  of  things  sublime, 
Are  the  lone  tombs  where  rest  the  Creat  of  Time. 


in 

Yon  lonely  pillar,  rising  on  the  plain, 
Marks  where  the  bravest  knight  of  France  was  slain, — 
The  Prince  of  chivalry,  the  Lord  of  war, 
Gaston  de  Foix :  for  some  untimely  star 
Led  him  against  thy  city,  and  he  fell. 
As  falls  some  forest-lion  fighting  well. 
Taken  from  life  while  life  and  love  were  new. 
He  lies  beneath  God's  seamless  veil  of  blue; 
Tall  lance-like  reeds  wave  sadly  o'er  his  liead, 
And  oleanders  bloom  to  deeper  red. 
Where  his  bright  youth  flowed  crimson  on  the  ground. 

Look  farther  iiortli  unto  that  broken  mound, — 
There,  })risoned  now  within  a  lordly  tomb 
Raised  by  a  daughter's  hand,  in  lonely  gloom. 
Huge-limbed  Theodoric,  the  Gothic  king, 
Sleeps  after  all  his  weary  conquering. 
Time  hath  not  spared  his  ruin, — wind  and  rain 
Have  broken  down  his  stronghold;  ami  again 


6  RAVENNA 

We  see  that  Death  is  mighty  lord  of  all, 

And  king  and  clown  to  ashen  dust  must  fall. 

Mighty  indeed  their  glory !  yet  to  me 
Barbaric  king,  or  knight  of  chivalry, 
Or  the  great  queen  herself,  were  poor  and  vain. 
Beside  the  grave  where  Dante  rests  from  pain. 
His  gilded  shrine  lies  open  to  the  air; 
And  cunning  sculptor's  hands  have  carven  there 
The  calm  white  brow,  as  calm  as  earliest  morn, 
The  eyes  that  flashed  with  passionate  love  and  scorn. 
The  lips  that  sang  of  Heaven  and  of  Hell, 
The  almond-face  which  Giotto  drew  so  well. 
The  weary  face  of  Dante ; — to  this  day, 
Here  in  his  place  of  resting,  far  away 
From  Arno's  yellow  waters,  rushing  down 
Through  the  wide  bridges  of  that  fairy  town, 
Where  the  tall  tower  of  Giotto  seems  to  rise 
A  marble  lily  under  sapphire  skies ! 
Alas !  my  Dante !  thou  hast  known  the  pain 
Of  meaner  lives, — the  exile's  galling  chain, 
How  steep  the  stairs  within  kings'  houses  are. 
And  all  the  petty  miseries  which  mar 
Man's  nobler  nature  with  the  sense  of  wrong. 
Yet  this  dull  world  is  grateful  for  thy  song ; 
Our  nations  do  thee  homage, — even  she. 
That  cruel  queen  of  vine-clad  Tuscany, 
Who  bound  with  crown  of  thorns  thy  living  brow. 
Hath  decked  thine  empty  tomb  with  laurels  now. 
And  begs  in  vain  the  ashes  of  her  son. 


RAVENNA 

O  mightiest  exile!  all  thy  grief  is  done: 
Thy  soul  walks  now  beside  thy  Beatrice; 
Ravenna  guards  thine  ashes:  sleep  in  peace. 


IV 

How  lone  this  palace  is ;  how  grey  the  walls ! 
No  minstrel  now  wakes  echoes  in  these  halls. 
The  broken  chain  lies  rusting  on  the  door, 
And  noisome  weeds  have  split  the  marble  floor : 
Here  lurks  the  snake,  and  here  the  lizards  run 
By  the  stone  lions  blinking  in  the  sun. 
Byron  dwelt  here  in  love  and  revelry 
For  two  long  ^ears — a  second  Anthony, 
Who  of  the  world  another  Actium  made! — 
Yet  suffered  not  his  royal  soul  to  fade, 
Or  lyre  to  break,  or  lance  to  grow  less  keen, 
'Neath  any  wiles  of  an  Egyptian  queen. 
For  from  the  East  there  came  a  mighty  cry, 
And  Greece  stood  up  to  fight  for  Liberty, 
And  called  him  from  Ravenna:  never  knight 
Rode  forth  more  nobly  to  wild  scenes  of  fight ! 
None  fell  more  bravely  on  ensanguined  field. 
Borne  like  a  Spartan  back  upon  his  shield ! 
O  Hellas  1  Hellas !  in  thine  hour  of  pride. 
Thy  day  of  might,  remember  him  who  died 
To  wrest  from  off  thy  limbs  the  trammelling  chain 
O  Salamis!  O  lone  Plata?an  plain! 
O  tossing  waves  of  wild  Eubocan  sea ! 
O  wind-swept  heights  of  lone  Thennopylse! 


8  RAVENNA 

He  loved  you  well — ay,  not  alone  in  word, 
Who  freely  gave  to  thee  his  lyre  and  sword, 
Like  ^schylos  at  well-fought  Marathon: 

And  England,  too,  shall  glory  in  her  son, 
Her  warrior-poet,  first  in  song  and  fight. 
No  longer  now  shall  Slander's  venomed  spite 
Crawl  like  a  snake  across  his  perfect  name. 
Or  mar  the  lordly  scutcheon  of  his  fame. 

For  as  the  olive-garland  of  the  race. 
Which  lights  with  joy  each  eager  runner's  face, 
As  the  red  cross  which  saveth  men  in  war. 
As  a  flame-bearded  beacon  seen  from  far 
By  mariners  upon  a   storm-tossed  sea, — 
Such  was  his  love  for  Greece  and  Liberty ! 

Byron,  thy  crowns  are  ever  fresh  and  green: 
Red  leaves  of  rose  from  Sapphic  Mitylene 
Shall  bind  thy  brows ;  the  myrtle  blooms  for  thee. 
In  hidden  glades  by  lonely  Castaly; 
The  laurels  wait  thy  coming:  all  are  thine. 
And  round  thy  head  one  perfect  wreath  will  twine. 


The  pine-tops  rocked  before  the  evening  breeze 
With  the  hoarse  murmur  of  the  wintry  seas, 
And  the  tall  stems  were  streaked  with  amber  bright 
I  wandered  through  the  wood  in  wild  delight. 
Some  startled  bird,  with  fluttering  wings  and  fleet, 
Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms :  at  my  feet. 


RAVENNA 

Like  silver  crowns,  the  palo  narcissi  lay, 

And  small  birds  sanf:p  on  evory  twining  spray. 

C)  wavino-  trees,  ()  forest  liberty! 

Within  your  haunts  at  least  a  man   is  free, 

And  half  forgets  the  weary  world  of  strife: 

The  blood  flows  hotter,  and  a  sense  of  life 

Wakes  i'  the  quickening  veins,  while  once  again 

The  woods  are  filled  with  gods  we  fancied  slain. 

Long  time  I  watclied,  and  surely  lioped  to  see 

Some  goat-foot  Pan  make  merry  minstrelsy 

Amid  the  reeds !  some  startled  Dryad-maid 

In  girlish  flight !  or  lurking  in  the  glade. 

The  soft  brown  limbs,  the  wanton  treaclierous  face 

[)f  woodland  god!     Queen  Dian  in  the  chase, 

White-limbed  and  terrible,  witli  look  of  j)ride, 

And  leash  of  boar-hounds  leaping  at  her  side! 

Ur  Hylas  mirrored  in  the  perfect  stream. 

O  idle  heart !  O  fond  Hellenic  dream  ! 
Lre   long,  with  melancholy   rise   and  swell, 
The  evening  chimes,  the  convent's  vesper-bell, 
Struck  on  mine  ears  amid  the  amorous  flowers. 
Wiisl  alas!   these  sweet  and   honiid   hours 
[lad  'whelmed  my  heart  like  some  encroaching  si-a, 
And  drowned  all  thoughts  of  black  Geth^emane. 

VI 

O  lone  Ravenn.i !  many  a  talc  is  told 
;)f  thy  great  glories  in  the  days  of  old: 


10  RAVENNA 

Two  thousand  years  have  passed  since  thou  didst  see 

Caesar  ride  forth  to  royal  victory. 

Mighty  thy  name  when  Rome's  lean  eagles  flew 

From  Britain's  isles  to  far  Euphrates  blue; 

And  of  the  peoples  thou  wast  noble  queen, 

Till  in  thy  streets  the  Goth  and  Hun  were  seen. 

Discrowned  by  man,  deserted  by  the  sea, 

Thou  sleepest,  rocked  in  lonely  misery ! 

No  longer  now  upon  thy  swelling  tide, 

Pine-forest-like,  thy  myriad  galleys  ride! 

For  where  the  brass-beaked  ships  were  wont  to  float, 

The  weary  shepherd  pipes  his  mournful  note; 

And  the  white  sheep  are  free  to  come  and  go 

Where  Adria's  purple  waters  used  to  flow. 

O  fair!  0  sad!  O  Queen  uncomforted! 
In  ruined  loveliness  thou  liest  dead. 
Alone  of  all  thy  sisters ;  for  at  last 
Italia's  royal  warrior  hath  passed 
Rome's  lordliest  entrance,  and  hath  worn  his  crown 
In  the  high  temples  of  the  Eternal  Town ! 
The  Palatine  hath  welcomed  back  her  king. 
And  with  his  name  the  seven  mountains  ring  1 

And  Naples  hath  outlived  her  dream  of  pain. 
And  mocks  her  tyrant !     Venice  lives  again, 
New  risen  from  the  waters !  and  the  cry 
Of  Light  and  Truth,  of  Love  and  Liberty, 
Is  heard  in  lordly  Genoa,  and  where 
The  marble  spires  of  Milan  wound  the  air, 


RAVENNA  11 

Rings  from  the  Alps  to  the  Sicilian  shore, 
And  Dante's  dream  is  now  a  dream  no  more. 

But  thou,  Ravenna,  better  loved  than  i\\\. 
Thy  ruined  palaces  are  but  a  pall 
That  hides  thy  fallen  greatness !  and  thy  name 
Burns  like  a  grey  and  flickering  candle-flame, 
Beneath  the  noonday  splendour  of  the  sun 
Of  new  Italia !  for  the  night  is  done, 
The  night  of  dark  oppression,  and  the  day 
Hath  dawned  in  passionate  splendour :  far  away 
The  Austrian  hounds  are  hunted  from  the  land, 
Be^'ond  those  ice-crowned  citadels  which  stand 
Girdhng  the  plain  of  royal  Lombardy, 
From  the  far  West  unto  the  Eastern  sea. 

I  know,  indeed,  that  sons  of  thine  have  died 
In  Lissa's  waters,  by  the  mountain-side 
Of  Aspromonte,  on  Novara's  plain, — 
Nor  have  thy  children  died  for  thee  in  vain: 
And  yet,  methinks,  thou  hast  not  drunk  this  wine 
From  grapes  new-crushed  of  Liberty  divine, 
Tliou  hast  not  followed  that  immortal  Star 
Which  leads  the  people  forth  to  deeds  of  war. 
Weary  of  life,  tliou  licst  in  silent  sleep, 
As  one  who  marks  the  lengthening  shadows  creep, 
Careless  of  all  the  hurrying  hours  that  run. 
Mourning  some  day  of  glory,  for  the  sun 
Of  Freedom  hath  not  shewn  to  thee  his  face, 
And  thou  hast  caught  no  flambeau  in  tlie  race. 


12  RAVENNA 

Yet  wake  not  from  thy  slumbers, — rest  thee  well, 
Amidst  thy  fields  of  amber  asphodel. 
Thy  lily-sprinkled  meadows, — rest  thee  there, 
To  mock  all  human  greatness :  who  would  dare 
To  vent  the  paltry  sorrows  of  his  life 
Before  thy  ruins,  or  to  praise  the  strife 
Of  kings'  ambition,  and  the  barren  pride 
Of  warring  nations !  wert  not  thou  the  Bride 
Of  the  wild  Lord  of  Adria's  stormy  sea ! 
The  Queen  of  double  Empires !  and  to  thee 
Were  not  the  nations  given  as  thy  prey ! 
And  now — thy  gates  lie  open  night  and  day. 
The  grass  grows  green  on  every  tower  and  hall, 
The  ghastly  fig  hath  cleft  thy  bastioned  wall; 
And  where  thy  mailed  warriors  stood  at  rest 
The  midnight  owl  hath  made  her  secret  nest. 
O  fallen  !  fallen  !  from  thy  high  estate, 
O  city  trammelled  in  the  toils  of  Fate, 
Doth  nought  remain  of  all  thy  glorious  days. 
But  a  dull  shield,  a  crown  of  withered  bays ! 

Yet  who  beneath  this  night  of  wars  and  fears. 
From  tranquil  tower  can  watch  the  coming  years ; 
Who  can  foretell  what  joys  the  day  shall  bring, 
Or  why  before  the  dawn  the  linnets  sing? 
Thou,  even  thou,  mayst  wake,  as  wakes  the  rose 
To  crimson  splendour  from  its  grave  of  snows ; 
As  the  rich  corn-fields  rise  to  red  and  gold 
From  these  brown  lands,  now  stiff  with  Winter's  cold ; 
As  from  the  storm-rack  comes  a  perfect  star! 


RAVENNA  13 

O  much-loved  city !  I  have  wandered  far 
From  the  wave-circled  islands  of  my  home; 
Have  seen  the  gloomy  mystery  of  the  Dome 
Rise  slowly  from  the  drear  Campagna's  way, 
Clothed  in  the  royal  purple  of  the  day : 
I   from  the  city   of  the   violet  crown 
Have  watched  the  sun  by  Corinth's  hill  go  down, 
And  marked  the  ''myriad  laughter"  of  tlie  sea 
From  starlit  hills  of  flower-starred  Arcady ; 
Yet  back  to  thee  returns  my  perfect  love. 
As  to  its  forest-nest  the  evening  dove. 

O  poet's  city !  one  who  scarce  has  seen 
Some  twent}'  summers  cast  their  doublets  green. 
For  Autumn's  livery,  would  seek  in  vain 
To  wake  his  lyre  to  sing  a  louder  strain, 
Or  tell  th}'  days  of  glory ; — poor  indeed 
Is  the  low  murmur  of  the  shepherd's  reed. 
Where  the  loud  clarion's  blast  should  shake  the  sky, 
And  flame  across  the  heavens !  and  to  try 
Such  lofty  themes  were  folly ;  yet  I  know 
That  never  felt  my  heart  a  nobler  glow 
Than  when  I  woke  the  silence  of  thy  street 
With  clamorous  trampling  of  my  horse's  feet. 
And  saw  the  city  which  now  I  try  to  sing, 
After  long  days  of  weary  travelling. 

vn 

Adieu,  Ravenna !  but  a  year  ago, 
I  stood  and  watched  the  crimson  sunset  glow 


14  RAVENNA 

From  the  lone  chapel  on  thy  marshy  plain: 

The  sky  was  as  a  shield  that  caught  the  stain 

Of  blood  and  battle  from  the  dying  sun, 

And  in  the  west  the  circling  clouds  had  spun 

A  royal  robe,  which  some  great  God  might  wear, 

While  into  ocean-seas  of  pui'ple  air 

Sank  the  gold  valley  of  the  Lord  of  Light. 

Yet  here  the  gentle  stillness  of  the  night 
Brings  back  the  swelling  tide  of  memory, 
And  wakes  again  my  passionate  love  for  thee: 
Now  is  the  Spring  of  Love,  yet  soon  will  come 
On  meadow  and  tree  the  Summer's  lordly  bloom ; 
And  soon  the  grass  with  brighter  flowers  will  blow, 
And  send  up  lilies  for  some  boy  to  mow. 
Then  before  long  the  Summer's  conqueror. 
Rich  Autumn-time,  the  season's  usurer, 
Will  lend  his  hoarded  gold  to  all  the  trees, 
And  see  it  scattered  by  the  spendthrift  breeze; 
And  after  that  the  Winter  cold  and  drear. 
So  runs  the  perfect  cycle  of  the  year. 
And  so  from  youth  to  manhood  do  we  go. 
And  fall  to  weary  days  and  locks  of  snow. 
Love  only  knows  no  winter;  never  dies: 
Nor  cares  for  frowning  storms  or  leaden  skies. 
And  mine  for  thee  shall  never  pass  away. 
Though  my  weak  lips  may  falter  in  my  lay.     / 

Adieu!  Adieu!  yon  silent  evening  star,  ^ 
The  night's  ambassador,  doth  gleam  afar, 


RAVENNA  1 5 

And  bid  tlie  shepherd  bring  his  flocks  to  fold. 
Perchance  before  our  inland  seas  of  gold 
Are  garnered  by  the  reapers  into  sheaves, 
Perchance  before  I  see  the  Autumn  leaves, 
I  may  behold  thy  city ;  and  lay  down 
Low  at  thy  feet  the  poet's  laurel  crown. 

Adieu !  Adieu !  3'on  silver  lamp,  the  moon, 
Whicli  turns  our  midnight  into  perfect  noon, 
Doth  surely  light  thy  towers,  guarding  well 
Where  Dante  sleeps,  where  Byron  loved  to  dwell. 

Ravenna,  March,  1877. 
Oxford,  March,  1878. 


POEMS 

MDCCCLXXXI 


HELAS! 

rriO  drift  with  every  'passion  till  my  soul 
-^       Is  a  stringed  lute  on  which  all  winds  can  play. 
Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  given  away 
Mijie  ancient  wisdom,  and  austere  control? 
Methinks  my  life  is  a  twice-written  scroll 
'Scrawled  over  on  some  boyish  holiday 
With  idle  songs  for  pipe  and  virelay. 
Which  do  but  mar  the  secret  of  the  whole. 
'Purely  there  was  a  time  I  might  have  trod 
The  sunlit  heights,  and  from  life's  dissonance 
Struck  one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God: 
Is  that  time  dead?  lo!  with  a  little  rod 
I  did  but  touch  the  honey  of  romance — 
A7id  must  I  lose  a  souVs  inheritance? 


ELEUTHERIA 


AVE    IMPERATRIX 

SET  in  this  stormy  Northern  sea, 
Queen  of  these  restless  fields  of  tide, 
England !  what  shall  men  say  of  thee, 
Before  whose  feet  the  worlds  divide? 

The  earth,  a  brittle  globe  of  glass, 

Lies  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand. 
And  through  its  heart  of  crystal  pass, 

Like  shadows  through  a  twilight  land. 

The  spears  of  crimson-suited  war. 

The  long  white-crested  waves  of  flight. 

And  all  the  deadly  fires  which  are 
The  torches  of  the  lords  of  Night. 

The  yellow  leopards,  strained  and  lean. 
The  treacherous  Russian  knows  so  well. 

With  gaping  blackened  jaws  are  seen 

Leap  through  the  hail  of  screaming  shell. 

The  strong  sea-lion  of  England's  wars 
Hath  left  his  sapphire  cave  of  sea. 

To  battle  witli  the  stomi  that  mars 
The  star  of  England's  chivalry. 
21 


22  ELEUTHERIA 

The  brazen-throated  clarion  blows 
Across  the  Pathan's  reedy  fen, 

And  the  high  steeps  of  Indian  snows 
Shake  to  the  tread  of  armed  men. 

And  many  an  Afghan  chief,  who  lies 
Beneath  his   cool  pomegranate-trees. 

Clutches  his  sword  in  fierce  surmise 
When  on  the  mountain-side  he  sees 

The  fleet-foot  Marri  scout,  who  comes 
To  tell  how  he  hath  heard  afar 

The  measured  roll  of  English  drums 
Beat  at  the  gates  of  Kandahar. 

For  southern  wind  and  east  wind  meet 

Where,  girt  and  crowned  by  sword  and  fire, 

England  with  bare  and  bloody  feet 
Climbs  the  steep  road  of  wide  empire. 

O  lonely  Himalayan  height. 

Grey  pillar  of  the  Indian  sky. 
Where  saw'st  thou  last  in  clanging  flight 

Our  winged  dogs  of  Victory  .^^ 

The  almond-groves  of  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  where  red  lilies  blow, 
And  Oxus,  by  whose  yellow  sand 

The  grave  white-turbaned  merchants  go: 


ELEUTHERIA  23 

xVnd  on  from  thence  to  Ispahan, 

The  gilded  garden  of  the  sun, 
Wlience  the  long  dusty  caravan 

Brings  cedar  wood  and  vermilion; 

And  that  dread  city  of  Cabool 

Set  at  the  mountain's  scarped  feet, 
Whose  marble  tanks  are  ever  full 

With  water  for  the  noonday  heat: 

Where  through  the  narrow  straight  Bazaar 

A  little  maid  Circassian 
Is  led,  a  present  from  the  Czar 

Unto  some  old  and  bearded  khan, — 

Here  have  our  wild  war-eagles  flown. 
And  flapped  wide  wings  in  fiery  fight; 

But  the  sad  dove,  that  sits  alone 
In  England — she  hath  no  delight. 

In  vain  the  laughing  girl  will  lean 
To  greet  her  love  with  love-lit  eyes: 

Down  in  some  treacherous  black  ravine, 
Clutching  his  flag,  the  dead  boy  lies. 

And  many  a  moon  and  sun  will  see 

The  lingering  wistful  children  wait 
To  climb  upon  their  father's  knee; 

And  in  each  house  made  desolate 


24  ELEUTHERIA 

/     Pale  women  who  have  lost  their  lord 
Will  kiss  the  relics  of  the  slain — 
Some  tarnished  epaulette — some  sword — 
Poor  toys  to  soothe  such  anguished  pain. 

For  not  in  quiet  English  fields 

Are  these,  our  brothers,  lain  to  rest, 

Where  we  might  deck  their  broken  shields 
With  all  the  flowers  the  dead  love  best. 

For  some  are  by  the  Delhi  walls. 
And  many  in  the  Afghan  land. 

And  many  where  the  Ganges  falls 

Through  seven  mouths  of  shifting  sand. 

And  some  in  Russian  waters  lie, 
And  others  in  the  seas  which  are 

The  portals  to  the  East,  or  by 

The  wind-swept  heights  of  Trafalgar. 

O  wandering  graves !     O  restless  sleep ! 

O  silence  of  the  sunless  day ! 
O  still  ravine  !     O  stormy  deep  ! 

Give  up  your  prey!  give  up  your  prey! 

And  thou  whose  wounds  are  never  healed. 
Whose  weary  race  is  never  won, 

O  Cromwell's  England!  must  thou  yield 
For  every  inch  of  ground  a  son? 


ELEUTHERIA  2S 

Go !  crown  with  tliorns  thy  gold-crowned  head, 
Change  thy  gUul  song  to  song  of  pain ; 

Wind  and  wild  wave  have  got  thy  dead, 
And  will  not  yield  them  back  again. 

Wave  and  wild  wind  and  foreign  shore 
Possess  the  flower  of  English  land — 

Lips  that  thy  lips  shall  kiss  no  more, 
Hands  that  shall  never  clasp  thy  hand. 

What  profit  now  that  we  have  bound 

The  whole  round  world  with  nets  of  gold, 

If  hidden  in  our  heart  is  found 
The  care  that  groweth  never  old.f^ 

What  profit  that  our  galleys  ride, 

Pine-forest-like,  on  every  main? 
Ruin  and  wreck  are  at  our  side, 

Grim  warders  of  the  House  of  pain. 

Where  are  the  brave,  the  strong,  the  fleet .»* 

Where  is  our  English  chivalry? 
Wild  grasses  are  their  burial-sheet. 

And  sobbing  waves  their  threnody. 

O  loved  ones  lying  far  away. 

What  word  of  love  can  dead  lips  send! 

O  wasted  dust !     O  senseless  clay  ! 
Is  this  the  end !  is  this  the  end ! 


26  ELEUTHERIA 

Peace,  peace !  we  wrong  the  noble  dead 
To  vex  their  solemn  slumber  so; 

Though  childless,  and  with  thorn-crowned  head. 
Up  the  steep  road  must  England  go, 

Yet  when  this  fiery  web  is  spun. 

Her  watchmen  shall  descry  from  far 

The  young  Republic  like  a  sun 

Rise  from  these  crimson  seas  of  war. 


ELEUTHERIA  27 


SONNET   TO   LIBERTY 

NOT  that  I  love  thy  children,  whose  dull  eyes 
See  nothing  save  their  own  unlovely  woe, 
Whose  minds  know  nothing,  nothing  care  to  know,- 
But  that  the  roar  of  thy  Democracies, 
Thy  reigns  of  Terror,  thy  great  Anarchies, 
Mirror  my  wildest  passions  like  the  sea 

And  give  my  rage  a  brother !     Liberty  ! 

For  this  sake  only  do  thy  dissonant  cries 
Delight  my  discreet  soul,  else  might  all  kings 
By  bloody  knout  or  treacherous  cannonades 
Rob  nations  of  their  rights  inviolate 
And  I  remain  unmoved — and  yet,  and  yet. 
These  Christs  that  die  upon  the  barricades, 
God  knows  it  I  am  with  them,  in  some  things. 


28  ELEUTHERIA 


TO   MILTON 

MILTON !     I  think  thy  spirit  hath  passed  away 
From  these  white  chffs,  and  high-embattled 
towers ; 
This  gorgeous  fiery-coloured  world  of  ours 
Seems  fallen  into  ashes  dull  and  grey, 
And  the  age  changed  unto  a  mimic  play 

Wherein  we  waste  our  else  too-crowded  hours : 
For  all  our  pomp  and  pageantry  and  powers 
We  are  but  fit  to  delve  the  common  clay, 
Seeing  this  little  isle  on  which  we  stand, 
This  England,  this  sea-lion  of  the  sea. 
By  ignorant  demagogues  is  held  in  fee, 
Who  love  her  not:  Dear  God!  is  this  the  land 
Which  bare  a  triple  empire  in  her  hand 
When  Cromwell  spake  the  word  Democracy ! 


ELEUTHERIA  29 


LOUIS    NAPOLEON 

EAGLE  of  Austerlitz !  where  were  thy  wings 
\Vlien  far  away  upon  a  barbarous  strand, 
In  fight  unequal,  by  an  obscure  hand, 
Fell  the  last  scion  of  thy  brood  of  Kings ! 

Poor  boy !  thou  shalt  not  flaunt  thy  cloak  of  red. 
Or  ride  in  state  through  Paris  in  the  van 
Of  thy  returning  legions,  but  instead 

Th}'  mother  France,  free  and  republican. 

Shall  on  thy  dead  and  crownless  forehead  place 
The  better  laurels  of  a  soldier's  crown, 
That  not  dishonoured  should  thy  soul  go  down 

To  tell  the  mighty  Sire  of  thy  race 

That  France  hath  kissed  the  mouth  of  Liberty, 
And  found  it  sweeter  than  his  honied  bees, 
And  that  the  giant  wave  Democracy 

Breaks  on  the  shores  where  Kings  lay  couched  at  ease. 


30  ELEUTHERIA 


SONNET 

ON    THE    MASSACRE    OF    THE    CHRISTIANS    IN    BULGARIA 

CHRIST,  dost  thou  live  indeed?  or  are  thy  bones 
Still  straitened  in  their  rock-hewn  sepulchre? 
And  was  thy  Rising  only  dreamed  by  Her 
Whose  love  of  thee  for  all  her  sin  atones? 
For  here  the  air  is  horrid  with  men's  groans, 
The  priests  who  call  upon  thy  name  are  slain, 
Dost  thou  not  hear  the  bitter  wail  of  pain 
From  those  whose  children  lie  upon  the  stones? 
Come  down,  O  Son  of  God!  incestuous  gloom 
Curtains  the  land,  and  through  the  starless  night 
Over  thy  Cross  a  Crescent  moon  I   see ! 
If  thou  in  very  truth  didst  burst  the  tomb 
Come  down,  O  Son  of  Man !  and  show  thy  might, 
Lest  Mahomet  be  crowned  instead  of  Thee! 


ELEUTHERIA  31 


QUANTUM    IVIUTATA 

THERE  was  a  time  in  Europe  long  ago 
When  no  man  died  for  freedom  anywhere, 
But  England's  lion  leaping  from  its  lair 
Laid  hands   on   the   oppressor!   it   was   so 
While  England  could  a  great  Republic  show. 
Witness  the  men  of  Piedmont,  chiefest  care 
Of  Cromwell,  when  with  impotent  despair 
The  Pontiff  in  his  painted  portico 
Trembled  before  our  stern  ambassadors. 

How  comes  it  then  that  from  such  high  estate 
We  have  thus  fallen,  save  that  Luxury 
With  barren  merchandise  piles  up  the  gate 
Where  noble  thoughts  and  deeds  should  enter  by: 
Else  might  we  still  be  Milton's  heritors. 


32  ELEUTHERIA 


LIBERTATIS    SACRA    FAMES 

ALBEIT  nurtured  in  democracy, 
And  liking  best  that  state  republican 
Where  every  man  is  Kinglike  and  no  man 
Is  crowned  above  his  fellows,  yet  I  see, 
Spite  of  this  modern  fret  for  Liberty, 
Better  the  rule  of  One,  whom  all  obey. 
Than  to  let  clamorous  demagogues  betray 
Our  freedom  with  the  kiss  of  anarchy. 
Wherefore  I  love  them  not  whose  hands  profane 
Plant  the  red  flag  upon  the  piled-up  street 
For  no  right  cause,  beneath  whose  ignorant  reign 
Arts,  Culture,  Reverence,  Honour,  all  things  fade, 
Save  Treason  and  the  dagger  of  her  trade. 
Or  Murder  with  his  silent  bloody  feet. 


ELEUTHERIA  33 


THEORETIKOS 

THIS  mighty  empire  hath  but  feet  of  clay : 
Of  all  its  ancient  chivalry  and  might 
Our  little  island  is  forsaken  quite: 

Some  eneni}^  hath  stolen  its  crown  of  bay, 

And  from  its  hills  that  voice  hath  passed  away 
Which  spake  of  Freedom :  O  come  out  of  it, 
Come  out  of  it,  my  Soul,  thou  art  not  fit 

For  this  vile  traffic-house,  where  day  by  day 
Wisdom  and  reverence  are  sold  at  mart. 
And  the  rude  people  rage  with  ignorant  cries 

Against  an  heritage  of  centuries. 

It  mars  my  calm :  wherefore  in  dreams  of  Art 
And  loftiest  culture  I  would  stand  apart, 

Neither  for  God,  nor  for  his  enemies. 


THE    GARDEN   OF   EROS 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS 

TT  is  full  summer  now,  the  heart  of  June, 
-*-       Not  yet  the  sun-bunit  reapers  are  astir 
L'pon  the  upland  meadow  where  too  soon 
Rich  autumn  time,  the  season's  usurer, 
\Vill  lend  his  hoarded  gold  to  all  the  trees, 
And  sec  his  treasure  scattered  by  the  wild  and  spend- 
thrift breeze. 

Too  soon  indeed!  yet  here  the  daffodil. 

That  love-child  of  the  Spring,  has  lingered  on 

To  vex  the  rose  with  jealousy,  and  still 
The  harebell  spreads  her  azure  pavilion. 

And  like  a  strayed  and  wandering  reveller 

Abandoned    of    its    brothers,   whom    long   since    June's 
messenger 

The  missel-thrush  has  frighted  from  the  glade, 

One  pale  narcissus  loiters  fearfully 
Close  to  a  shadowy  nook,  where  half  afraid 

Of  their  own  loveliness  some  violets  lie 
That  will  not  look  the  gold  sun  in  the  face 
For  fear  of  too  much  splendour, — ah!  methinks  it  is  a 
place 

37 


38  THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS 

Which  should  be  trodden  by  Persephone 

When  wearied  of  the  flowerless  fields  of  Dis ! 

Or  danced  on  by  the  lads  of  Arcady ! 
The  hidden  secret  of  eternal  bliss 

Known  to  the  Grecian  here  a  man  might  find, 

Ah!  you  and  I  may  find  it  now  if  Love  and  Sleep  be 
kind. 

There  are  the  flowers  which  mourning  Herakles 
Strewed  on  the  tomb  of  Hylas,  columbine, 

Its  white  doves  all  a-flutter  where  the  breeze 
Kissed  them  too  harshly,  the  small  celandine. 

That  yellow-kirtled  chorister  of  eve, 

And  lilac  lady's-smock, — but  let  them  bloom  alone,  and 
leave 

Yon  spired  hollyhock  red-crocketed 

To  sway  its  silent  chimes,  else  must  the  bee, 

Its  little  bellringer,  go  seek  instead 
Some  other  pleasaunce ;  the  anemone 

That  weeps  at  daybreak,  like  a  silly  girl 

Before  her  love,  and  hardly  lets  the  butterflies  unfurl 

Their  painted  wings  beside  it, — bid  it  pine 

In  pale  virginity ;  the  winter  snow 
Will  suit  it  better  than  those  lips  of  thine 

Whose  fires  would  but  scorch  it,  rather  go 
And  pluck  that  amorous  flower  which  blooms  alone, 
Fed  by   the   pander  wind   with  dust  of  kisses   not  its 
own. 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS  39 

The  trumpet-mouths  of  red  convolvulus 
So  dear  to  maidens,  creamy  meadow-sweet 

Whiter  than  Juno's  throat  and  odorous 
As  all  Arabia,  hyacinths  the  feet 

Of  Huntress  Dian  would  be  loth  to  mar 

For  any  dappled   fawn, — })luck  these,  and  those   fond 
flowers  which  are 

Fairer  than  what  Queen  Venus  trod  upon 

Beneath  the  pines  of  Ida,  eucharis. 
That  morning  star  which  does  not  dread  the  sun, 

And  budding  marjoram  which  but  to  kiss 
Would  sweeten  Cytheraea's  lips  and  make 
Adonis  jealous, — these  for  thy  head, — and  for  thy  girdle 
take 

Yon  curving  spray  of  purple  clematis 

Whose  gorgeous  dye  outflames  the  Tyrian  king, 

And  foxgloves  with  their  nodding  chalices, 

But  that  one  narciss  which  the  startled  Spring 

Let  from  her  kirtle  fall  when  first  she       ard 

In  her  own  woods  the  wild  tempestuous  song  of  summer's 
bird, 

Ah !  leave  it  for  a  subtle  memory 

Of  those  sweet  tremulous  days  of  rain  and  sun, 
When  April  laughed  between  her  tears  to  see 

The  early  primrose  with  shy  footsteps  run 
From  the  gnarled  oak-tree  roots  till  all  the  wold. 
Spite  of  its  brown  and  trampled  leaves,  grew  bright  with 
shimmering  gold. 


40  THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS 

Nay,  pluck  it  too,  it  is  not  half  so  sweet 

As  thou  thyself,  my  soul's  idolatry ! 
And  when  thou  art  a-wearied  at  thy  feet 

Shall  oxlips  weave  their  brightest  tapestry, 
For  thee  the  woodbine  shall  forget  its  pride 
And  veil  its  tangled  whorls,   and   thou  shalt  walk  on 
daisies  pied. 

And  I  will  cut  a  reed  by  yonder  spring 

And  make  the  wood-gods  jealous,  and  old  Pan 

Wonder  what  young  intruder  dares  to  sing 
In  these  still  haunts,  where  never  foot  of  man 

Should  tread  at  evening,  lest  he  chance  to  spy 

The  marble  limbs  of  Artemis  and  all  her  company. 

And  I  will  tell  thee  why  the  jacinth  wears 
Such  dread  embroidery  of  dolorous  moan, 

And  why  the  hapless  nightingale  forbears 
To  sing  her  song  at  noon,  but  weeps  alone 

When  the  fleet  swallow  sleeps,  and  rich  men  feast. 

And  why  the  laurel  trembles  when  she  sees  the  lightening 
east. 

And  I  will  sing  how  sad  Proserpina 

Unto  a  grave  and  gloomy  Lord  was  wed, 

And  lure  the  silver-breasted  Helena 

Back  from  the  lotus  meadows  of  the  dead, 

So  shalt  thou  see  that  awful  loveliness 

For   which  two  mighty   Hosts   met   fearfully   in  war's 
abyss ! 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS  41 

And  tlicn  Til  pipe  to  thee  that  Grecian  tale 

How  C^ynthia  loves  the  lad  Endymion, 
And  hidden  in  a  grey  and  misty  veil 

Hies  to  the  cliffs  of  Latmos  once  the  Sun 
Leaps  from  his  ocean  bed  in  fruitless  chase 
Of  those  pak'  flying  feet  which   fade  away   in   his  em- 
brace. 

And  if  ni}'  flute  can  breathe  sweet  melody, 
We  may  behold  Her  face  who  long  ago 

Dwelt  among  men  by  the  yEgean  sea, 

And  whose  sad  house  with  pillaged  portico 

And  friezeless  wall  and  columns  toppled  down 

Looms   o'er  the  ruins  of  that  fair  and  violet-cinctured 
town. 

Spirit  of  Beauty !  tarry  still  awhile, 

They  are  not  dead,  thine  ancient  votaries. 

Some  few  there  are  to  whom  thy  radiant  smile 
Is  better  than  a  thousand  victories, 

Though  all  the  nobly  slain  of  Waterloo 

Rise  up  in  wrath  against  them !  tarry  still,  there  are  a 
few 

Who  for  thy  sake  would  give  their  manlihood 

And  consecrate  their  being,  I  at  least 
Have  done  so,  made  thy  lips  my  daily  food, 

And  in  thy  temples  found  a  goodlier  feast 
Than  this  stal'^'ed  age  can  give  me,  spite  of  all 
Its  new-found  creeds  so  sceptical  and  so  dogmatical. 


42  THE    GARDEN    OF   EROS 

Here  not  Cephissos,  not  Ilissos  flows, 

The  woods  of  white  Colonos  are  not  here, 

On  our  bleak  hills  the  olive  never  blows, 
No  simple  priest  conducts  his  lowing  steer 

Up  the  steep  marble  way,  nor  through  the  town 

Do  laughing  maidens  bear  to  thee  the  crocus-flowered 
gown. 

Yet  tarry !  for  the  boy  who  loved  thee  best, 

Whose  very  name  should  be  a  memory 
To  make  thee  linger,  sleeps  in  silent  rest 

Beneath  the  Roman  walls,  and  melody 
Still  mourns  her  sweetest  lyre,  none  can  play 
The  lute  of  Adonais,  with  his  lips  Song  passed  away. 

Nay,  when  Keats  died  the  Muses  still  had  left 

One  silver  voice  to  sing  his  threnody. 
But  ah!  too  soon  of  it  we  were  bereft 

When  on  that  riven  night  and  stormy  sea 
Panthea  claimed  her  singer  as  her  own, 
And  slew  the  mouth  that  praised  her;  since  which  time 
we  walk  alone. 

Save  for  that  fiery  heart,  that  morning  star 
Of  re-arisen  England,  whose   clear  eye 

Saw  from  our  tottering  throne  and  waste  of  war 
The  grand  Greek  limbs  of  young  Democracy 

Rise  mightily  like  Hesperus  and  bring 

The  great  Republic !  him  at  least  thy  love  hath  taught 
to  sing, 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS  43 

And  he  hath  been  with  thee  at  Thessaly, 

And  seen  white  Atalanta  fleet  of  foot 
In  passionless  and  fierce  virginity 

Hunting  tlie  tusked  boar,  his  honied  hite 
Hath  pierced  the  cavern  of  the  hollow  hill, 
And  Venus  laughs  to  know  one  knee  will  bow  before  her 
still. 

And  he  hath  kissed  the  lips  of  Proserpine, 

And  sung  the  GaliLTan's  requiem. 
That  wounded  forehead  dashed  with  blood  and  wine 

He  hath  discrowned,  the  Ancient  Gods  in  him 
Have  found  their  last,  most  ardent  worshipper. 
And  the  new  Sign  grows  grey  and  dim  before  its  con- 
queror. 

Spirit  of  Beauty!  tarry  with  us  still. 

It  is  not  quenched  the  torch  of  poesy, 
The  star  that  shook  above  the  Eastern  hill 

Holds   unassailed   its   argent  araioury 
From  all  the  gathering  gloom  and  fretful  fight — 
O  tarry  with  us  still !  for  through  the  long  and  common 
night, 

Morris,  our  sweet  and  simple  Chaucer's  child, 
Dear  heritor  of  Spenser's  tuneful  reed, 

With  soft  and  sylvan  pipe  has  oft  beguiled 
The  weary  soul  of  man  in  troublous  need, 

And  from  the  far  and  flowerless  fields  of  ice 

Has    brought    fair    flowers    meet    to    make   an    earthly 
paradise. 


44  THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS 

We  know  them  all,  Gudrun  the  strong  men's  bride 

Aslaug  and  Olafson  we  know  them  all, 
How  giant  Grettir  fought  and  Sigurd  died, 

And  what  enchantment  held  the  king  in  thrall 
When  lonely  Brynhild  wrestled  with  the  powers 
That  war   against    all   passion,   ah!   how   oft   through 
summer  hours. 

Long  listless  summer  hours  when  the  noon 

Being  enamoured  of  a  damask  rose 
Forgets  to  journey  westward,  till  the  moon 

The  pale  usurper  of  its  tribute  grows 
From  a  thin  sickle  to  a  silver  shield 
And   chides    its   loitering   car — how   oft,   in   some   cool 
grassy  field 

Far  from  the  cricket-ground  and  noisy  eight, 
At  Bagley,  where  the  rustling  bluebells  come 

Almost  before  the  blackbird  finds  a  mate 
And  overstay  the  swallow,  and  the  hum 

Of  m^any  murmuring  bees  flits  through  the  leaves, 

Have   I   lain   poring   on   the   dreamy    tales    his    fancy 
weaves, 

And  through  their  unreal  woes  and  mimic  pain 

Wept  for  myself,  and  so  was  purified. 
And  in  their  simple  mirth  grew  glad  again ; 

For  as  I  sailed  upon  that  pictured  tide 
The  strength  and  splendour  of  the  stoiTn  was  mine 
Without  the  storai's  red  ruin,  for  the  singer  is  divine. 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS  4S 

The  little  laugh  of  water  falling  down 

Is  not  so  musical,  the  clammy  gold 
Close  hoarded  in  the  tiny  waxen  town 

Has  less  of  sweetness  in  it,  and  the  old 
Half-withered  reeds  that  waved  in  Arcadv 
Touched  by  Ids  lips  break  forth  again  to  fresher  har- 
mon}^ 

Spirit  of  Beauty!  tarry  yet  awhile! 

Although  the  cheating  merchants  of  the  mart 
With  iron  roads  profane  our  lovely  isle, 

And  break  on  whirling  wheels  the  limbs  of  Art, 
Ay  I  though  the  crowded  factories  beget 
The  blind-worm  Ignorance  that  slays  the  soul,  O  tarry 
yet! 

For  One  at  least  there  is, — He  bears  his  name 
From  Dante  and  the  seraph  Gabriel, — 

Whose  double  laurels  burn  with  deathless  flame 
To  light  thine  altar ;  He  too  loves  thee  well. 

Who  saw  old  Merlin  lured  in  Vivien's  snare, 

And  the  white  feet  of  angels  coming  down  the  golden 
stair, 

Loves  thee  so  well,  that  all  the  World  for  him 
A  gorgeous-coloured  vestiture  must  wear, 

And  Sorrow  take  a  purple  diadem, 

Or  else  be  no  more  Sorrow,  and  Despair 

Gild  its  own  thorns,  and  Pain,  like  Adon,  be 

Even  in  anguish  beautiful; — such  is  the  empery 


46  THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS 

Which  Painters  hold,  and  such  the  heritage 
This  gentle  solemn  Spirit  doth  possess, 

Being  a  better  mirror  of  his  age 
In  all  his  pity,  love,  and  weariness, 

Than  those  who  can  but  copy  common  things. 

And   leave  the  Soul  unpainted  with  its   mighty  ques- 
tionings. 

But  they  are  few,  and  all  romance  has  flown. 
And  men  can  prophesy  about  the  sun. 

And  lecture  on  his  arrows — how,  alone. 

Through  a  waste  void  the  soulless  atoms  run. 

How  from  each  tree  its  weeping  nymph  has  fled. 

And  that  no  more  'mid  English  reeds  a  Naiad  shows  her 
head. 

Methinks  these  new  Actaeons  boast  too  soon 
That  they  have  spied  on  beauty ;  what  if  we 

Have  analysed  the  rainbow,  robbed  the  moon 
Of  her  most  ancient,  chastest  mystery, 

Shall  I,  the  last  Endymion,  lose  all  hope 

Because  rude  eyes  peer  at  my  mistress  through  a  tele- 
scope ! 

What  profit  if  this  scientific  age 

Burst  through  our  gates  with  all  its  retinue 
Of  modem  miracles !     Can  it  assuage 

One  lover's  breaking  heart  .^  what  can  it  do 
To  make  one  life  more  beautiful,  one  day 
More  godlike  in  its  period?  but  now  the  Age  of  Clay 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS  47 

Returns  in  homd  cycle,  and  tlic  earth 

liatli  borne  again  a  noisy  progeny 
Of  ignorant  Titans,  whose  ungodly  birth 

Hurls  them  against  the  august  hierarchy 
Which  sat  upon  Olympus,  to  the  Dust 
They  have  appealed,  and  to  that  barren  arbiter  they 
must 

Repair  for  judgment,  let  them,  if  they  can. 
From  Natural  Warfare  and  insensate  Chance, 

Create  the  new  Ideal  rule  for  man  ! 

Mcthinks  that  was  not  m}'  inheritance; 

For  I  was  nurtured  otherwise,  my  soul 

Passes  from  higher  heights  of  life  to  a  more  supreme 
goah 

Lo !  while  we  spake  the  earth  did  turn  away 
Her  yisage  from  the  God,  and  Hecate's  boat 

Rose  silver-laden,  till  the  jealous  day 
Blew  all  its  torches  out:  I  did  not  note 

The  waning  hours,  to  young  Endymions 

Time's  palsied  fingers  count  in  vain  his  rosary  of  suns ! 

Mark  how  the  yellow  iris  wearily 

Leans  back  its  throat,  as  though  it  would  be  kissed 
By  its  false  chamberer,  the  dragon-fly. 

Who,  like  a  blue  vein  on  a  girl's  white  wrist. 
Sleeps  on  that  snowy  primrose  of  the  night. 
Which  'gins  to  flush   with  crimson  shame,  and  die  be- 
neath the  light. 


48  THE    GARDEN    OF    EROS 

Come  let  us  go,  against  the  pallid  shield 
Of  the  wan  sky  the  almond  blossoms  gleam, 

The  corn-crake  nested  in  the  unmown  field 
Answers  its  mate,  across  the  misty  stream 

On  fitful  wing  the  startled  curlews  fly. 

And  in  his  sedgy  bed  the  lark,  for  joy  that  Day  is  nigh, 

Scatters  the  pearled  dew  from  off  the  grass. 

In  tremulous  ecstasy  to  greet  the  sun. 
Who  soon  in  gilded  panoply  will  pass 

Forth  from  yon  orange-curtained  pavilion 
Plung  in  the  burning  east,  see,  the  red  rim 
O'ertops  the  expectant  hills !  it  is  the  God !  for  love  of 
him 

Already  the  shrill  lark  is  out  of  sight. 

Flooding  with  waves  of  song  this  silent  dell, — 

Ah!  there  is  something  more  in  that  bird's  flight 
Than  could  be  tested  in  a  crucible! — 

But  the  air  freshens,  let  us  go,  why  soon 

The  woodmen  will  be  here ;  how  we  have  lived  tliis  night 
of  June! 


ROSA   MYSTICA 


REQUIESCAT 

TREAD  lightly,  she  is  near 
Under  the  snow, 
Speak  gently,  she  can  hear 
The  daisies  grow. 

All  her  bright  golden  hair 
Tarnished  with  rust, 

She  that  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow, 

She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a  woman,  so 

Sweetly  she  grew. 

Coffin-board,  heavy  stone, 
v^e)",**'^  Lie  on  her  breast, 

I  vex  my  heart  alone, 
She  is  at  rest. 

Peace,  Peace,  she  cannot  hear 

Lyre  or  sonnet, 
All  my  life's  buried  here. 

Heap  earth  upon  it. 

Avignon. 


51 


52  ROSA    MYSTICA 


SONNET    ON    APPROACHING    ITALY 

T    REACHED  the  Alps :  the  soul  within  me  burned 
-■-    Italia,  my  Italia,  at  thy  name: 

And  when  from  out  the  mountain's  heart  I  came 
And  saw  the  land  for  which  my  life  had  yearned, 
I  laughed  as  one  who  some  great  prize  had  earned: 

And  musing  on  the  marvel  of  thy  fame 

I  watched  the  day,  till  marked  with  wounds  of  flame 
The  turquoise  sky  to  burnished  gold  was  turned. 
The  pine-trees  waved  as  waves  a  woman's  hair, 

And  in  the  orchards  every  twining  spray 

Was  breaking  into  flakes  of  blossoming  foam: 
But  when  I  knew  that  far  away  at  Rome 

In  evil  bonds  a  second  Peter  lay, 

I  wept  to  see  the  land  so  very  fair. 

Turin. 


ROSA    MYSTICA  S3 


SAN    MINIATO 

SEE,  I  have  climbed  the  mountain-side 
Up  to  this  holy  house  of  God, 
Where  once  that  Angel-Painter  trod 
Who  saw  the  heavens  opened  wide, 

And  throned  upon  the  crescent  moon 
The  Virginal  white  Queen  of  Grace, — 
Mary !  could  I  but  see  thy  face 
Death  could  not  come  at  all  too  soon. 

O  crowned  by  God  with  thorns  and  pain ! 
Mother  of  Christ !     O  mystic  wife  ! 
My  heart  is  weary  of  this  life 
And  ovcrsad  to  sing  again. 

O  crowned  by  God  with  love  and  flame ! 
O  crowned  by  Christ  the  Holy  One ! 
O  listen  ere  the  searching  sun 
Show  to  the  world  mj'  sin  and  shame. 


54  ROSA    MYSTICA 


I 


AVE    MARIA    GRATIA    PLENA 

WAS  this  His  coming!     I  had  hoped  to  see 
A  scene  of  wondrous  glory,  as  was  told 
Of  some  great  God  who  in  a  rain  of  gold 

Broke  open  bars  and  fell  on  Danae: 

Or  a  dread  vision  as  when  Semele 

Sickening  for  love  and  unappeased  desire 
Prayed  to  see  God's  clear  body,  and  the  fire 

Caught  her  brown  limbs  and  slew  her  utterly : 

With  such  glad  dreams  I  sought  this  holy  place, 
And  now  with  wondering  eyes  and  heart  I  stand 
Before  this  supreme  mystery  of  Love : 

Some  kneeling  girl  with  passionless  pale  face, 
An  angel  with  a  lily  in  his  hand. 
And  over  both  the  white  wings  of  a  Dove. 

Florence. 


ROSA    MYSTICA  5S 


I  ITALIA 

TTALIA!  thou  ai*t  fallen,  though  with  sheen 
^      Of  battle-spears  thy  clamorous  armies  stride 

From  the  north  xVlps  to  the  Sicilian  tide ! 
Ay !  fallen,  though  the  nations  hail  thee  Queen 
Because  rich  gold  in  every  town  is  seen. 

And  on  thy  sapphire  lake  in  tossing  pride 

Of  wind-filled  vans  thy  myriad  galleys  ride 
Beneath  one  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 
O  Fair  and  Strong !     O  Strong  and  Fair  in  vain !  ,  ^^,^|'  ^^^  ^ 

Look  southward  where  Rome's  desecrated  town  ^      -u.  uu 

Lies  mourning  for  her  God-anointed  King! 
Look  heaven-ward!  shall  God  allow  this  thing? 

Nay !  but  some  flame-girt  Raphael  shall  come  down, 

And  smite  the  Spoiler  with  the  sword  of  pain. 

Venice. 


56  ROSA    MYSTICA 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  IN  HOLY  WEEK  AT  GENOA 

I   WANDERED  through  Scoghetto's  far  retreat, 
The  oranges  on  each  o'erhanging  spray 
Burned  as  bright  lamps  of  gold  to  shame  the  day 

Some  startled  bird  with  fluttering  wings  and  fleet 

Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms,  at  my  feet 
Like  silver  moons  the  pale  narcissi  lay : 
And  the  curved  waves  that  streaked  the  great  green 
bay 

Laughed  i'  the  sun,  and  life  seemed  very  sweet. 

Outside  the  young  boy-priest  passed  singing  clear, 
"Jesus  the  Son  of  Mary  has  been  slain, 
O  come  and  fill  his  sepulchre  with  flowers." 

Ah,  God !  Ah,  God !  those  dear  Hellenic  hours 
Had  drowned  all  memory  of  Th}^  bitter  pain. 
The  Cross,  the  Crown,  the  Soldiers,  and  the  Spear. 


ROSA    MYSTIC  A  57 


ROME    UNVISITED 


THE  com  lias  turned  from  grey  to  red, 
Since  first  my  spirit  wandered  forth 
From  the  drear  cities  of  the  north. 
And  to  Italia's  mountains  fled. 

And  liere  I  set  my  face  towards  liome, 
For  all  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 
Although,  methinks,  yon  hlood-red  sun 

Marshals  the  way  to  Holy  Rome. 

O  Blessed  Lad}',  who  dost  hold 
Upon  the  seven  hills  thy  reign ! 

0  Mother  without  blot  or  stain. 
Crowned  with  bright  crowns  of  triple  gold! 

O  Roma,  Roma,  at  thy  feet 

1  lay  this  barren  gift  of  song! 
For,  all !  the  way  is  steep  and  long 

That  leads  unto  th}^  sacred  street. 


58  ROSA    MYSTIC  A 


II 

AND  yet  what  joy  it  were  for  me 
To  turn  my  feet  unto  the  south, 
And  journeying  towards  the  Tiber  mouth 
To  kneel  again  at  Fiesole! 

And  wandering  through  the  tangled  pines 
That  break  the  gold  of  Arno's   stream, 
To  see  the  purple  mist  and  gleam 

Of  morning  on  the  Apennines. 

By  many  a  vineyard-hidden  home, 
Orchard,  and  olive-garden  grey. 
Till  from  the  drear  Campagna's  way 

The  seven  hills  bear  up  the  dome! 


ROSA    MYSTICA  S9 


III 

\     PILGRIM  from  the  northern  seas— 
■^— *•      Wliat  joy  for  mc  to  seek  alone 

The  wondrous  Temple,  and  the  throne 
Of  Him  wlio  holds  the  awful  keys ! 

When,  bright  with  purple  and  witli  gold. 
Come  priest  and  holy  Cardinal, 
And  borne  above  the  heads  of  all 

The  gentle  Shepherd  of  the  Fold. 

O  joy  to  see  before  I  die 

The  only  God-anointed  King, 
And  hear  the  silver  trumpets  ring 

A  triumph  as  He  passes  by ! 

Or  at  the  brazen-pillared  shrine 
Holds  high  the  mystic  sacrifice, 
And  shows  his  God  to  human  eyes 

Beneath  the  veil  of  bread  and  wine. 


60  ROSA    MYSTICA 


IV 


FOR  lo,  what  changes  time  can  bring! 
The  cycles  of  revolving  years 
May  free  my  heart  from  all  its  fears, 
And  teach  my  lips  a  song  to  sing. 

Before  yon  field  of  trembling  gold 
Is  garnered  into  dusty  sheaves, 
Or  ere  the  autumn's  scarlet  leaves 

Flutter  as  birds  adown  the  wold, 

I  may  have  run  the  glorious  race. 

And  caught  the  torch  while  yet  aflame, 
And  called  upon  the  holy  name 

Of  Him  who  now  doth  hide  His  face. 

Arona. 


ROSA    MYSTICA  61 


URBS    SACRA    .ETERNA 

ROME!  what  a  scroll  of  History  thine  has  been; 
In  the  first  days  th^^  sword  republican 
Ruled  the  whole  world  for  many  an  age's  span: 

Then  of  the  peoples  wert  thou  royal  Queen, 

Till  in  thy  streets  the  bearded  Goth  was  seen; 
And  now  upon  thy  walls  the  breezes  fan 
(Ah,  city  crowned  by  God,  discrowned  by  man!) 

The  hated  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 

When  was  thy  glory !  when  in  search  for  power 
Thine  eagles  flew  to  greet  the  double  sun. 
And  the  wild  nations  shuddered  at  thy  rod? 

Nay,  but  thy  glor}^  tarried  for  this  hour, 
When  pilgrims  kneel  before  the  Holy  One, 
The  prisoned  shepherd  of  the  Church  of  God. 

Monte  Mario. 


62  ROSA    MYSTICA 


SONNET 

ON   HEARING   THE   DIES   IR.E  SUNG  IN   THE  SISTINE   CHAPEL 

NAY,  Lord,  not  thus !  white  HHes  in  the  spring, 
Sad  oHve-groves,  or  silver-breasted  dove, 
Teach  me  more  clearly  of  Thy  life  and  love 
Than  terrors  of  red  flame  and  thundering. 
The  hillside  vines  dear  memories  of  Thee  bring: 
A  bird  at  evening  flying  to  its  nest 
Tells  me  of  One  who  had  no  place  of  rest: 
I  think  it  is  of  Thee  the  sparrows  sing. 
Come  rather  on  some  autumn  afternoon, 

When  red  and  brown  are  burnished  on  the  leaves, 
And  the  fields  echo  to  the  gleaner's  song, 
Come  when  the  splendid  fulness  of  the  moon 
Looks  down  upon  the  rows  of  golden  sheaves, 
And  reap  Thy  harvest :  we  have  waited  long. 


ROSA    MYSTICA  63 


EASTER    DAY 

THE  silver  trumpets  rang  across  the  Dome: 
The  people  knelt  upon  the  ground  with  awe: 

And  borne  upon  the  necks  of  men  I  saw, 
Like  some  great  God,  the  Holy  Lord  of  Home. 
Priest-like,  he  wore  a  robe  more  white  than  foam, 

And,  king-like,  swathed  himself  in  royal  red, 

Three  crowns  of  gold  rose  high  upon  his  head : 
In  splendour  and  in  light  the  Pope  passed  home. 
My  heart  stole  back  across  wide  wastes  of  years 

To  One  who  wandered  by  a  lonely  sea, 

And  sought  in  vain  for  any  place  of  rest: 
"Foxes  have  holes,  and  every  bird  its  nest, 

I,  only  I,  must  wander  wearil}^, 

And  bruise  my  feet,  and  drink  wine  salt  with  tears." 


64  ROSA    MYSTIC  A 


E    TENEBRIS 

/^  OME  down,  O  Christ,  and  help  me !  reach  thy  hand, 

^-^      For  I  am  drowning  in  a  stormier  sea 
Than  Simon  on  thy  lake  of  Galilee: 

The  wine  of  life  is  spilt  upon  the  sand. 

My  heart  is  as  some  famine-murdered  land 

Whence  all  good  things  have  perished  utterly, 
And  well  I  know  my  soul  in  Hell  must  lie 

If  I  this  night  before  God's  throne  should  stand. 

"He  sleeps  perchance,  or  rideth  to  the  chase, 
Like  Baal,  when  his  prophets  howled  that  name 
From  morn  to  noon  on  Carmel's  smitten  height."- 

Nay,  peace,  I  shall  behold  before  the  night, 

The  feet  of  br^-ss,  the  robe  more  white  than  flame. 
The  wounded  hands,  the  weary  human  face.     ^ 


ROSA    MYSTICA  65 


VITA    NUOVA 

T    STOOD  by  the  unvintagcable  sea 

^    Till  the  wet  waves  drenched  face  and  hair  with  spray, 
The  long  red  fires  of  the  dying  day 

Burned  in  the  west ;  the  wind  piped  drearily ; 

And  to  the  land  the  clamorous  gulls  did  flee: 
"Alas !"  I  cried,  "my  life  is  full  of  pain. 
And  who  can  garner  fruit  or  golden  grain. 

From  these  waste  fields  which  travail  ceaselessly !" 

My  nets  gaped  wide  with  many  a  break  and  flaw 
"'■^fNathless  I  threw  them  as  my  final  cast 
Into  the  sea,  and  waited  for  the  end. 

When  lo !  a  sudden  glory !  and  I  saw 

From  the  black  waters  of  my  tortured  past 
The  argent  splendour  of  white  limbs  ascend ! 


66  ROSA    MYSTIC  A 


MADONNA    MIA 

\    LILY-GIRL,  not  made  for  this  world's  pain, 
-^^^   With    brown,    soft    h^ir    close    braided    by    her 
ears, 
And  longing  eyes  half  veiled  by  slumberous  tears 
Like  bluest  water  seen  through  mists  of  rain: 
Pale  cheeks  whereon  no  love  hath  left  its  stain. 
Red  underlip  drawn  in  for  fear  of  love, 
And  white  throat,  whiter  than  the  silvered  dove, 
Through  whose  wan  marble  creeps  one  purple  vein. 
Yet,  though  my  lips  shall  praise  her  without  cease, 
Even  to  kiss  her  feet  I  am  not  bold. 
Being  o'ershadowed  by  the  wings  of  awe. 
Like  Dante,  when  he  stood  with  Beatrice 
Beneath  the  flaming  Lion's  breast,  and  saw 
The  seventh  Crystal,  and  the  Stair  of  Gold. 


ROSA    MYSTICA  67 


THE    NEW    HELEN 

WHERE  hast  thou  been  since  round  the  walls  of 
Troy 
The  sons  of  God  fought  in  that  great  emprise? 
Why  dost  thou  walk  our  common  earth  again? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  that  impassioned  boy, 
His  purple  galley,  and  his  Tyrian  men, 
And  treacherous  Aphrodite's  mocking  eyes? 
For  surely  it  was  thou,  who,  like  a  star 
Hung  in  the  silver  silence  of  the  night, 
Didst  lure  the  Old  World's  chivalry  and  might 
Into  the  clamorous  crimson  waves  of  war! 

Or  didst  thou  rule  the  fire-laden  moon? 

In  amorous  Sidon  was  thy  temple  built 
Over  the  light  and  laughter  of  the  sea? 

Where,  behind  lattice  scarlet-wrought  and  gilt. 
Some  brown-limbed  girl  did  weave  thee  tapestry, 
All  through  the  waste  and  wearied  hours  of  noon; 
Till  her  wan  cheek  with  flame  of  passion  burned, 

And  she  rose  up  the  sea-washed  lips  to  kiss 
Of  some  glad  Cyprian  sailor,  safe  returned 

From  Cal])e  and  the  cliffs  of  Herakles ! 


68  ROSA    MYSTICA 

No !  thou  art  Helen,  and  none  other  one ! 

It  was  for  thee  that  young  Sarpedon  died, 
And  Memnon's  manhood  was  untimely  spent; 

It  was  for  thee  gold-crested  Hector  tried 
With  Thetis'  child  that  evil  race  to  run, 

In  the  last  year  of  th}^  beleaguerment ; 
Ay !  even  now  the  glory  of  thy  fame 

Burns  in  those  fields  of  trampled  asphodel, 

Where  the  high  lords  whom  Ilion  knew  so  well 
Clash  ghostly  shields,  and  call  upon  thy  name. 

Where  hast  thou  been?  in  that  enchanted  land 

Whose  slumbering  vales  forlorn  Calypso  knew. 
Where  never  mower  rose  at  break  of  day 

But  all  unswathed  the  trammelling  grasses  grew, 
And  the  sad  shepherd  saw  the  tall  corn  stand 

Till  summer's  red  had  changed  to  withered  grey? 
Didst  thou  lie  there  by  some  LethcTan  stream 

Deep  brooding  on  thine  ancient  memory, 
The  crash  of  broken  spears,  the  fiery  gleam 

From  shivered  helm,  the  Grecian  battle-cry? 

Nay,  thou  wert  hidden  in  that  hollow  hill 
With  one  who  is  forgotten  utterly, 

That  discrowned  Queen  men  call  the  Erycine; 
Hidden  away  that  never  mightst  thou  see 

The  face  of  Her,  before  whose  mouldering  shrine 
To-day  at  Rome  the  silent  nations  kneel ; 
Who  gat  from  Love  no  joyous  gladdening, 
But  only  Love's  intolerable  pain. 


ROSA    MYSTICA  69 

Only  a  sword  to  pierce  her  heart  in  twain, 
Only  the  bitterness  of  child-bearing. 

The  lotus-leaves  which  heal  the  wounds  of  Death 
Lie  in  thy  hand ;  O,  be  thou  kind  to  me, 

While  yet  I  know  the  summer  of  my  days; 

For  hardly  can  my  tremulous  lips  draw  breath 
To  fill  the  silver  trumpet  with  thy  praise. 
So  bowed  am  I  before  thy  m^'stery ; 

So  bowed  and  broken  on  Love's  terrible  wheel, 
That  I  have  lost  all  hope  and  heart  to  sing, 
Yet  care  I  not  what  ruin  time  may  bring 

If  in  thy  temple  thou  wilt  let  me  kneel. 

Alas,  alas,  thou  wilt  not  tarry  here, 

But,  like  that  bird,  the  servant  of  the  sun. 

Who  flies  before  the  north  wind  and  the  night, 
So  wilt  thou  fly  our  evil  land  and  drear, 

Back  to  the  tower  of  thine  old  delight, 

And  the  red  lips  of  young  Euphorion ; 
Nor  shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  again. 

But  in  this  poisonous  garden-close  must  stay, 
Crowning  my  brows  with  the  thorn-crown  of  pain, 

Till  all  my  loveless  life  shall  pass  away. 

O  Helen  !  Helen  !  Helen  !  yet  a  while. 
Yet  for  a  little  while,  O,  tarry  here. 

Till  the  dawn  cometh  and  the  shadows  flee! 
For  in  the  gladsome  sunlight  of  thy  smile 


70  ROSA    MYSTICA 

Of  heaven  or  hell  I  have  no  thought  or  fear, 
Seeing  I  know  no  other  god  but  thee: 

No  other  god  save  him,  before  whose  feet 
In  nets  of  gold  the  tired  planets  move. 
The  incarnate  spirit  of  spiritual  love 

Who  in  thy  body  holds  his  joyous  seat. 

Thou  wert  not  born  as  common  women  are ! 

But,  girt  with  silver  splendour  of  the  foam. 
Didst  from  the  depths  of  sapphire  seas  arise! 
And  at  thy  coming  some  immortal  star, 

Bearded  with  flame,  blazed  in  the  Eastern  skies. 

And  waked  the  shepherds  on  thine  island-home. 
Thou  shalt  not  die :  no  asps  of  Egypt  creep 

Close  at  thy  heels  to  taint  the  delicate  air; 

No  sullen-blooming  poppies  stain  thy  hair, 
Those  scarlet  heralds  of  eternal  sleep. 

Lily  of  love,  pure  and  inviolate! 

Tower  of  ivory !  red  rose  of  fire ! 

Thou  hast  come  down  our  darkness  to  illume: 
For  we,  close-caught  in  the  wide  nets  of  Fate, 

Wearied  with  waiting  for  the  World's  Desire, 
Aimlessly  wandered  in  the  House  of  gloom. 
Aimlessly  sought  some  slumberous  anodyne 

For  wasted  lives,  for  lingering  wretchedness, 
Till  we  beheld  thy  re-arisen  shrine. 

And  the  white  glory  of  thy  loveliness. 


THE    BURDEN   OF   ITYS 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS 

THIS  English  Thames  is  hoher  far  than  Rome, 
Those  harebells  like  a  sudden  flush  of  sea 
Breaking  across  the  woodland,  with  the  foam 

Of  meadow-sweet  and  white  anemone 
To  fleck  their  blue  waves, — God  is  likelier  there. 
Than  hidden  in  that  crystal-hearted  star  the  pale  monks 
bear ! 

Those  violet-gleaming  butterflies  that  take 

Yon  creamy  lily  for  their  pavilion 
Are  monsignores,  and  where  the  rushes  shake 

A  lazy  pike  lies  basking  in  the  sun 
His  eyes  half-shut, — He  is  some  mitred  old 
Bishop  m  partibus!  look  at  those  gaudy  scales  all  green 
and  gold. 

The  wind  the  restless  prisoner  of  the  trees 

Does  well  for  Palsestrina,  one  would  say 
The  mighty  master's  hands  were  on  the  keys 

Of  the  ^Nlaria  organ,  which  they  play 
Wlien  early  on  some  sapphire  Easter  mom 
In  a  high  litter  red  as  blood  or  sin  the  Pope  is  borne 

73 


74  THE    BURDEN    OF   ITYS 

From  his  dark  House  out  to  the  Balcony 

Above  the  bronze  gates  and  the  crowded  square, 

Whose  very  fountains  seem  for  ecstasy 
To  toss  their  silver  lances  in  the  air, 

And  stretching  out  weak  hands  to  East  and  West 

In  vain  sends  peace  to  peaceless  lands,  to  restless  nations 
rest. 

Is  not  yon  lingering  orange  afterglow 

That  stays  to  vex  the  moon  more  fair  than  all 

Rome's  lordliest  pageants !  strange,  a  year  age 
I  knelt  before  some  crimson  Cardinal 

Who  bare  the  Host  across  the  Esquiline, 

And   now — those  common   poppies   in   the   wheat  seem 
twice  as  fine. 

The  blue-green  beanfields  yonder,  tremulous 
With  the  last  shower,  sweeter  perfume  bring 

Through  this  cool  evening  than  the  odorous 

Flame- jewelled  censers  the  young  deacons  swing, 

When  the  grey  priest  unlocks  the  curtained  shrine. 

And  makes  God's  body  from  the  common  fruit  of  corn 
and  \ane. 

Poor  Fra  Giovanni  bawling  at  the  mass 

Were  out  of  tune  now,  for  a  small  brown  bird 

Sings  overhead,  and  through  the  long  cool  grass 
I  see  that  throbbing  throat  which  once  I  heard 

On  starlit  hills  of  flow^er-starred  Arcady, 

Once  where  the  white  and  crescent  sand  of  Salamis  meets 
sea. 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  75 

Sweet  is  the  swallow  twittering  on  the  eaves 
At  (layhreak,  when  tlie  mower  wlicts  his  scythe, 

And  stock-doves  niurnmr,  and  the  niilkniald  leaves 
Her  little  lonely  bed,  and  carols  blithe 

To  see  the  heavy-lowing  cattle  wait 

Stretching  their  huge  and  dripping  mouths  across  the 
farnuard  gate. 

And  sweet  the  hops  upon  the  Kentish  leas, 

And  sweet  the  wind  that  lifts  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  sweet  the  fretful  swanns  of  grumbling  bees 
That  round  and  round  the  linden  blossoms  play; 

And  sweet  the  heifer  breathing  in  the  stall, 

And  the  green  bursting  figs  that  hang  upon  the  red- 
brick wall. 

And  sweet  to  hear  the  cuckoo  mock  the  spring 

Wliile  the  last  violet  loiters  by  the  well. 
And  sweet  to  hear  the  shepherd  Daphnis  sing 

The  song  of  Linus  through  a  sunny  dell 
Of  warm  Arcadia  where  the  com  is  gold 
And    the   slight   lithe-limbed   reapers    dance   about   the 
wattled  fold. 

And  sweet  with  young  Lycoris  to  recline 

In  some  Illyrian  valley  far  away, 
Where  canopied  on  herbs  amaracine 

We  too  might  waste  the  summer-tranced  day 
Matching  our  reeds  in  sportive  rivalry. 
While  far  beneath  us  frets  the  troubled  purple  of  the 


76  THE    BURDEN    OF   ITYS 

But  sweeter  far  if  silver-sandalled  foot 

Of  some  long-hidden  God  should  ever  tread 

The  Nuneham  meadows,  if  with  reeded  flute 

Pressed  to  his  lips  some  Faun  might  raise  his  head 

By  the  green  water-flags,  ah !  sweet  indeed 

To  see  the  heavenly  herdsman  call  his  white-fleeced  flock 
to  feed. 

Then  sing  to  me  thou  tuneful  chorister. 

Though  what  thou  sing'st  be  thine  own  requiem! 

Tell  me  thy  tale  thou  hapless  chronicler 
Of  thine  own  tragedies !  do  not  contemn 

These  unfamiliar  haunts,  this  English  field. 

For  many  a  lovely  coronal  our  northern  isle  can  yield 

Which  Grecian  meadows  know  not,  many  a  rose 

Which  all  day  long  in  vales  JEolian 
A  lad  might  seek  in  vain  for  overgrows 

Our  hedges  like  a  wanton  courtezan 
Unthrifty  of  its  beauty,  lilies  too 

Ilissus   never   mirrored    star   our   streams,    and    cockles 
blue 

Dot  the  green  wheat  which,  though  they  are  the  signs 
For  swallows  going  south,  would  never  spread 

Their  azure  tents  between  the  Attic  vines ; 
Even  that  little  weed  of  ragged  red, 

Which  bids  the  robin  pipe,  in  Arcady 

Would  be  a  trespasser,  and  many  an  unsung  elegy 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  77 

Sleeps  in  the  reeds  that  fringe  our  winding  Thames 
Which  to  awake  were  sweeter  ravishment 

Than  ever  Syrinx  wept  for,  diadems 

Of  brown  bee-studded  orchids  which  were  meant 

For  Cjtheraea's  brows  are  hidden  here 

Unknown  to  Cythera?a,  and  by  yonder  pasturing  steer 

There  is  a  tiny  yellow^  daffodil, 

The  butterfly  can  see  it  from  afar, 
Although  one  summer  evening's  dew  could  fill 

Its  little  cup  tw^ice  over  ere  the  star 
Had  called  the  lazy  shepherd  to  his  fold 
And  be  no  prodigal,  each  leaf  is  flecked  with  spotted 
gold 

As  if  Jove's  gorgeous  leman  Danae 

Hot  from  his  gilded  arms  had  stooped  to  kiss 

The  trembling  petals,  or  young  Mercury 
Low-flying  to  the  dusky  ford  of  Dis 

Had  with  one  feather  of  his  pinions 

Just  brushed   them !   the  slight   stem   which  bears   the 
burden  of  its  suns 

Is  hardly  thicker  than  the  gossamer, 

Or  poor  Arachne's  silver  tapestry, — 
Men  say  it  bloomed  upon  the  sepulchre 

Of  One  I  sometime  worshipped,  but  to  me 
It  seems  to  bring  diviner  memories 

Of    faun-loved    Heliconian    glades    and    blue    nymph- 
haunted  seas. 


78  THE    BURDEN    OF   ITYS 

Of  an  untrodden  vale  at  Tempe  where 
On  the  clear  river's  marge  Narcissus  lies, 

The  tangle  of  the  forest  in  his  hair, 

The  silence  of  the  woodland  in  his  eyes, 

Wooing  that  drifting  imagery  which  is 

No  sooner  kissed  than  broken,  memories  of  Salmacis 

Who  is  not  boy  or  girl  and  yet  is  both, 

Fed  by  two  fires  and  unsatisfied 
Through  their  excess,  each  passion  being  loth 

For  love's  own  sake  to  leave  the  other's  side 
Yet  killing  love  by  staying,  memories 
Of  Oreads  peeping  through  the  leaves  of  silent  moonlit 
trees, 

Of  lonely  Ariadne  on  the  wharf 

At  Naxos,  when  she  saw  the  treacherous  crew 
Far  out  at  sea,  and  waved  her  crimson  scarf 

And  called  false  Theseus  back  again  nor  knew 
That  Dionysos  on  an  amber  pard 

Was    close    behind    her,    memories    of    what    Maeonia's 
bard 

With  sightless  eyes  beheld,  the  wall  of  Troy 

Queen  Helen  lying  in  the  ivory  room, 
And  at  her  side  an  amorous  red-lipped  boy 

Trimming  with  dainty  hand  his  helmet's  plume, 
And  far  away  the  moil,  the  shout,  the  groan. 
As  Hector  shielded  off  the  spear  and  Ajax  hurled  the 
stone ; 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  79 

Of  winged  Perseus  with  his  flawless  sword 

Cleaving  the  snaky  tresses  of  tlie  witch, 
And  all  those  tales  iniperishahly  stored 

In  little  Grecian  urns,  freightage  more  rich 
Than  any  gaudy  galleon  of  Spain 

Bare  from  the  Indies  ever !  these  at  least  bring  back 
again. 

For  well  I  know  they  are  not  dead  at  all, 

The  ancient  Gods  of  Grecian  poesy. 
They  are  asleep,  and  when  they  hear  thee  call 

Will  wake  and  think  'tis  very  Thessaly, 
This  Thames  the  Daulian  waters,  this  cool  glade 
The  yellow-irised  mead  where  once  young  Itys  laughed 
and  played. 

If  it  was  thou  dear  jasmine-cradled  bird 
Who  from  the  leaf}-  stillness  of  thy  throne 

Sang  to  the  wondrous  boy,  until  he  heard 
The  horn  of  Atalanta  faintly  blown 

Across  the  Cumnor  hills,  and  wandenng 

Through  Bagley  wood  at  evening  found  the  Attic  poets' 
spring, — 

Ah !  tiny  sober-suited  advocate 

That  pleadest  for  the  moon  against  the  day ! 
If  thou  didst  make  the  shepherd  seek  his  mate 

On  that  sweet  questing,  when  Proserpina 
Forgot  it  was  not  Sicily  and  leant 

Across   the  mossy   Sandford   stile   in    ravished   wonder- 
ment,— 


80  THE    BURDEN    OF   ITYS 

Light-winged  and  bright-eyed  miracle  of  the  wood! 

If  ever  thou  didst  soothe  with  melody 
One  of  that  little  clan,  that  brotherhood 

Which  loved  the  moming-star  of  Tuscany 
More  than  the  perfect  sun  of  Raphael 
And  is  immortal,  sing  to  me !  for  I  too  love  thee  well. 

Sing  on !  sing  on !  let  the  dull  world  grow  young, 

Let  elemental  things  take  form  again. 
And  the  old  shapes  of  Beauty  walk  among 

The  simple  garths  and  open  crofts,  as  w^hen 
The  son  of  Leto  bare  the  willow  rod, 
And    the   soft    sheep    and   shaggy    goats    followed   the 
boyish  God. 

Sing  on !  sing  on !  and  Bacchus  will  be  here 
Astride  upon  his  gorgeous  Indian  throne. 

And  over  whimpering  tigers  shake  the  spear 
With  yellow  ivy  crowned  and  gummy  cone. 

While  at  his  side  the  wanton  Bassarid 

Will  throw  the  lion  by  the  mane  and  catch  the  mountain 
kid! 

Sing  on !  and  I  will  wear  the  leopard  skin. 
And  steal  the  mooned  wings  of  Ashtaroth, 

Upon  whose  icy  chariot  we  could  win 
Cithaeron  in  an  hour  ere  the  froth 

Has  overbrimmed  the  wine-vat  or  the  Faun 

Ceased  from  the  treading !  ay,  before  the  flickering  lamp 
of  dawn 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  81 

Has  scared  tlu'  hooting  owUt  to  its  nest, 
xVnd  warned  tlie  bat  to  close  its  filmy  vans, 

Some  Ma>nad  girl  with  vine-leaves  on  her  breast 
Will  filch  their  beechnuts  from  the  sleeping  Pans 

So  softly  that  the  little  nested  thrush 

Will  never  wake,  and  then  with  shrilly  laugh  and  leap 
will  rush 

Down  the  green  valley  where  the  fallen  dew 
Lies  thick  beneath  the  elm  and  count  her  store, 

Till  the  brown  Satyrs  in  a  jolly  creAV 

Trample  the  loosestrife  down  along  the  shore. 

And  where  their  horned  master  sits  in  state 

Bring  strawberries  and  bloomy  plums  upon  a  wicker 
crate ! 

Sing  on !  and  soon  with  passion-wearied  face 

Through  the  cool  leaves  Apollo's  lad  will  come, 

The  Tyrian  prince  his  bristled  boar  will  chase 
Adown  the  chestnut-copses  all  a-bloom, 

And  ivory-limbed,  grey-eyed,  with  look  of  pride. 

After  yon  velvet-coated  deer  the  virgin  maid  will  ride. 

Sing  on  !  and  I  the  dying  boy  will  see 

Stain  with  his  purple  blood  the  waxen  bell 

That  overweighs  the  jacinth,  and  to  me 
The  wretched  Cyprian  her  woe  will  tell. 

And  I  will  kiss  her  mouth  and  streaming  eyes. 

And  lead  her  to  the  myrtle-hidden  grove  where  Aden 
lies! 


82  THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS 

Cry  out  aloud  on  Itys !  memory 

That  foster-brother  of  remorse  and  pain 

Drops  poison  in  mine  ear, — O  to  be  free, 

To  burn  one's  old  ships !  and  to  launch  again 

Into  the  white-plumed  battle  of  the  waves 

And   fight  old   Proteus   for  the  spoil  of  coral-flowered 


O  for  Medea  with  her  poppied  spell! 

O  for  the  secret  of  the  Colchian  shrine! 
O  for  one  leaf  of  that  pale  asphodel 

Which  binds  the  tired  brows  of  Proserpine, 
And  sheds  such  wondrous  dews  at  eve  that  she 
Dreams  of  the  fields  of  Enna,  by  the  far  Sicilian  sea, 

Where  oft  the  golden-girdled  bee  she  chased 

From  lily  to  lily  on  the  level  mead, 
Ere  yet  her  sombre  Lord  had  bid  her  taste 

The  deadly  fruit  of  that  pomegranate  seed, 
Ere  the  black  steeds  had  harried  her  away 
Down   to  the   faint  and  flowerless   land,  the  sick   and 
sunless  day. 

O  for  one  midnight  and  as  paramour 

The  Venus  of  the  little  Melian  farm! 
O  that  some  antique  statue  for  one  hour 

Might  wake  to  passion,  and  that  I  could  charm 
The  Dawn  at  Florence  from  its  dumb  despair 
Mix  with  those  mighty  limbs  and  make  that  giant  breast 
my  lair! 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  83 

Sing  on  !  sing  on  !  I  would  be  dnank  with  life, 
Drunk  with  the  trampled  vintage  of  my  youth, 

I  would  forget  the  wearying  wasted  strife, 
The  riven  veil,  the  Gorgon  eyes  of  Truth, 

The  praycrlcss  vigil  and  the  cry  for  prayer, 

The  barren  gifts,  the  lifted  arms,  the  dull  insensate  air! 

Sing  on !  sing  on !  O  feathered  Niobe, 

Thou  canst  make  sorrow  beautiful,  and  steal 

From  joy  its  sweetest  music,  not  as  we 

Who  by  dead  voiceless  silence  strive  to  heal 

Our  too  untentcd  wounds,  and  do  but  keep 

Pain   barricadoed  in  our  hearts,   and  murder  pillowed 
sleep. 

Sing  louder  yet,  why  must  I  still  behold 

The  wan  white  face  of  that  deserted  Christ, 

Whose  bleeding  hands  my  hands  did  once  enfold. 
Whose  smitten  lips  my  lips  so  oft  liave  kissed, 

And  now  in  mute  and  marble  misery 

Sits  in  his  lone  dishonoured  House  and  w^eps,  perchance 
for  me. 

O  Memory  cast  down  thy  wreathed  shell ! 

Break  thy  hoarse  lute  O  sad  Melpomene! 
O  Sorrow,  Sorrow  keep  thy  cloistered  cell 

Nor  dim  with  tears  this  limpid  Castaly! 
Cease,  Philomel,  thou  dost  the  forest  wrong 
To  vex  its  sylvan  quiet  with  such  wild  impassioned  song! 


84  THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS 

Cease,  cease,  or  if  'tis  anguish  to  be  dumb 

Take  from  the  pastoral  thrush  her  simpler  air, 

Whose  jocund  carelessness  doth  more  become 
This  English  woodland  than  thy  keen  despair, 

Ah!  cease  and  let  the  northwind  bear  thy  lay 

Back  to  the  rocky  hills  of  Thrace,  the  stormy  Daulian 
bay. 

A  moment  more,  the  startled  leaves  had  stirred, 
Endymion  would  have  passed  across  the  mead 

Moonstruck  with  love,  and  this  still  Thames  had  heard 
Pan  plash  and  paddle  groping  for  some  reed 

To  lure  from  her  blue  cave  that  Naiad  maid 

Who  for  such  piping  listens  half  in  joy  and  half  afraid. 

A  moment  more,  the  waking  dove  had  cooed. 

The  silver  daughter  of  the  silver  sea 
With  the  fond  gyves  of  clinging  hands  had  wooed 

Her  wanton  from  the  chase,  and  Dryope 
Had  thrust  aside  the  branches  of  her  oak 
To  see  the  lusty  gold-haired  lad  rein  in  his  snorting 
yoke. 

A  moment  more,  the  trees  had  stooped  to  kiss 
Pale  Daphne  just  awakening  from  the  swoon 

Of  tremulous  laurels,  lonely  Salmacis 

Had  bared  his  barren  beauty  to  the  moon. 

And  through  the  vale  with  sad  voluptuous  smile 

Antinous  had  wandered,  the  red  lotus  of  the  Nile 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  85 

Down  leaning  from  Ills  bhick  and  clustering  hair, 
To  shade  those  slumberous  eyelids'  caverned  bliss, 

Or  else  on  yonder  grassy  slope  with  bare 
liigh-tuniced  limbs  unravishcd  Artemis 

Had  bade  her  hounds  give  tongue,  and  roused  the  deer 

From    his    green    ambuscade    with    shrill    halloo    and 
pricking  spear. 

Lie  still,  lie  still,  O  passionate  heart,  lie  still ! 

O  Melancholy,  fold  thy  raven  wing! 
O  sobbing  Dryad,  from  thy  hollow  hill 

Come  not  with  such  desponded  answering! 
No  more  thou  winged  ^Nlars^^as  complain, 
Apollo  loveth  not  to  hear  such  troubled  songs  of  pain ! 

It  was  a  dream,  the  glade  is  tenantless. 

No  soft  Ionian  laughter  moves  the  air. 
The  Thames  creeps  on  in  sluggish  leadenness. 

And  from  the  copse  left  desolate  and  bare 
Fled  is  3^oung  Bacchus  with  his  revelry. 
Yet  still  from  Nuneham  wood  there  comes  that  thrilling 
melody 

So  sad,  that  one  might  think  a  human  heart 

Brake  in  each  separate  note,  a  quality 
Which  music  sometimes  has,  being  the  Art 

Which  is  most  nigh  to  tears  and  memory. 
Poor  mourning  Philomel,  what  dost  thou  fear.'* 
Thy  sister  doth  not  haunt  these  fields,  Pandion  is  not 
here, 


86  THE    BURDEN    OF   ITYS 

Here  is  no  cruel  Lord  with  murderous  blade, 

No  woven  web  of  bloody  heraldries, 
But  mossy  dells  for  roving  comrades  made, 

Warm  valleys  where  the  tired  student  lies 
With  half-shut  book,  and  many  a  winding  walk 
Where  rustic  lovers  stray  at  eve  in  happy  simple  talk. 

The  harmless  rabbit  gambols  with  its  young 
Across  the  trampled  towing-path,  where  late 

A  troop  of  laughing  boys  in  jostling  throng 

Cheered  with  their  noisy  cries  the  racing  eight ; 

The  gossamer,  with  ravelled  silver  threads, 

Works  at  its  little  loom,  and  from  the  dusky  red-eaved 
sheds 

Of  the  lone  Farm  a  flickering  light  shines  out 

Where  the  swinked  shepherd  drives  his  bleating  flock 

Back  to  their  wattled  sheep-cotes,  a  faint  shout 
Comes  from  some  Oxford  boat  at  Sandford  lock, 

And  starts  the  moor-hen  from  the  sedgy  rill, 

And  the  dim  lengthening  shadows  flit  like  swallows  up 
thehilL 

The  heron  passes  homeward  to  the  mere. 

The  blue  mist  creeps  among  the  shivering  trees, 

Gold  world  by  world  the  silent  stars  appear. 
And  like  a  blossom  blown  before  the  breeze 

A  white  moon  drifts  across  the  shimmering  sky, 

Mute  arbitress  of  all  thy  sad,  thy  rapturous  threnody. 


THE    BURDEN    OF    ITYS  87 

She  docs  not  heed  thee,  wherefore  should  she  heed, 

She  knows  Endymion  is  not  far  away, 
'Tis  I,  'tis  I,  whose  soul  is  as  the  reed 

Which  has  no  message  of  its  own  to  phay. 
So  pipes  another's  bidding,  it  is  I, 
Drifting  with  every  wind  on  the  wide  sea  of  misery. 

Ah!  the  brown  bird  has  ceased:  one  exquisite  trill 
About  the  sombre  woodland  seems  to  cling 

Dying  in  music,  else  the  air  is  still. 

So  still  that  one  might  hear  the  bat's  small  wing 

Wander  and  wheel  above  the  pines,  or  tell 

Each  tiny  dewdrop  dripping  from  the  blue-bell's  brim- 
ming cell. 

And  far  away  across  the  lengthening  wold, 
Across  the  willowy  flats  and  thickets  brown, 

^lagdalen's  tall  tower  tipped  with  tremulous  gold 
]\Iarks  the  long  High  Street  of  the  little  town. 

And  warns  me  to  return;  I  must  not  wait. 

Hark !  'tis  the  curfew  booming  from  the  bell  at  Christ 
Church  gate. 


WIND    FLOWERS 


IMPRESSION    DU    MATIN 

THE  Thames  nocturao  of  blue  and  gold 
Changed  to  a  Harmony  in  grey : 
A  barge  with  ochre-coloured  hay 
Dropt  from  the  wharf:  and  chill  and  cold 

The  yellow  fog  came  creeping  down 
The  bridges,  till  the  houses'  walls 
Seemed  changed  to  shadows,  and  St.  Paul's 

Loomed  like  a  bubble  o'er  the  town. 

Then  suddenly  arose  the  clang 

Of  waking  life;  the  streets  were  stirred 
With  country  waggons :  and  a  bird 

Flew  to  the  glistening  roofs  and  sang. 

But  one  pale  v/oman  all  alone. 

The  daylight  kissing  her  wan  hair. 
Loitered  beneath  the  gas  lamps'  flare, 

With  lips  of  flame  and  heart  of  stone. 


91 


92  WIND    FLOWERS 


MAGDALEN    WALKS 

rr^HE  little  white  clouds  are  racing  over  the  sky, 
■^       And  the  fields   are  strewn  with  the  gold  of  the     ] 
flower  of  March, 
The  daffodil  breaks  under  foot,  and  the  tasselled  larch 
Sways  and  swings  as  the  thrush  goes  hurrying  by. 

A  delicate  odour  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  morning 
breeze, 
The  odour  of  deep  wet  grass,  and  of  brown  new-fur- 
rowed earth. 
The  birds  are  singing  for  joy  of  the  Spring's  glad 
birth. 
Hopping  from  branch  to  branch  on  the  rocking  trees. 

And  all  the  woods  are  alive  with  the  murmur  and  sound 
of  Spring, 
And  the  rose-bud  breaks  into  pink  on  the  climbing 

briar. 
And  the  crocus-bed  is  a  quivering  moon  of  fire 
Girdled  round  with  the  belt  of  an  amethyst  ring. 

And  the  plane  to  the  pine-tree  is  whispering  some  tale 
of  love 
Till  it  rustles  with  laughter  and  tosses  its  mantle  of 
green, 


WIND    FLOWERS  93 

And  the  gloom  of  the  wych-ehn's  hollow   is   lit  with 
the  iris  sheen 
Of  the  burnished  rainbow  tlimat  and  the  silver  breast  of 
a  dove. 

See !  the  lark  starts  up  from  his  bed  in  the  meadow  there, 
Breakin<^  the  gossamer  threads  and  the  nets  of  dew, 
And  flashing  a-down  the  river,  a  flame  of  blue ! 

The  kingfisher  flies  like  an  arrow,  and  wounds  the  air. 

[And  the  sense  of  mj'  life  is  sweet!  though  I  know  that 
the  end  is  nigh: 
For  the  ruin  and  rain  of  winter  will  shortly  come. 
The  lily  will  lose  its  gold,  and  the  chestnut-bloom 

In  billows  of  red  and  white  on  the  grass  will  lie. 

And  even  the  light  of  the  sun  will  fade  at  the  last, 
And  the  leaves  will  fall,   and  the  birds   will  hasten 

away. 
And  I  will  be  left  in  the  snow  of  a  flowerless  day 
To  think  on  the  glories  of  Spring,  and  the  joys  of  a 
youth  long  past. 

Yet  be  silent,   my   heart!   do  not  count  it  a   profitless 
thing 
To  have   seen  the  splendour  of  sun,   and   of   grass, 

and  of  flower! 
To  have  lived  and  loved !  for  I  hold  that  to  love  for 
an  hour 
Is  better  for  man  and   for  woman  than  cycles  of  blos- 
soming Spring.] 


94  WIND    FLOWERS 


ATHANASIA 

rriO  that  gaunt  House  of  Art  which  lacks  for  naught 
^        Of  all  the  great  things  men  have  saved  from  Time, 
The  withered  body  of  a  girl  was  brought 

Dead  ere  the  world's  glad  youth  had  touched  its  prime, 
And  seen  by  lonely  Arabs  13'ing  hid 
In  the  dim  womb  of  some  black  pyramid. 

But  when  they  had  unloosed  the  linen  band 

Which  swathed  the  Egyptian's  body, — lo !  was  found 

Closed  in  the  wasted  hollow  of  her  hand 

A  little  seed,  which  sown  in  English  ground 

Did  wondrous  snow  of  starry  blossoms  bear. 

And  spread  rich  odours  through  our  springtide  air. 

With  such  strange  arts  this  flower  did  allure 

That  all  forgotten  was  the  asphodel, 
And  the  brown  bee,  the  lily's  paramour, 

Forsook  the  cup  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell, 
For  not  a  thing  of  earth  it  seemed  to  be. 
But  stolen  from  some  heavenly  Arcady. 

In  vain  the  sad  narcissus,  wan  and  white 

At  its  own  beauty,  hung  across  the  stream, 

The  purple  dragon-fly  had  no  delight 

With  its  gold  dust  to  make  his  v/ings  a- gleam. 


WIND    FLOWERS  95 

Ah  !  no  deliglit  the  jasniiiic-hlooin  to  kiss, 
Or  brush  the  raln-penrls  from  the  eucharis. 

For  love  of  it  the  passionate  nightingale 
Forgot  the  hills  of  Thrace,  the  cruel  king. 

And  the  pale  dove  no  longer  cared  to  sail 

Through  the  wet  woods  at  time  of  blossoming, 

Ihit  round  this  flower  of  Egy})t  sought  to  float. 

With  silvered  wing  and  amethystine  throat. 

While  the  hot  sun  blazed  In  his  tower  of  blue 
A  cooling  wind  crept  from  the  land  of  snows, 

And  the  warm  south  with  tender  tears  of  dew 

Drenched  its  white  leaves  when  Hesperos  uprose 

Amid  those  sea-green  meadows  of  the  sky 

On  which  the  scarlet  bars  of  sunset  lie. 

But  when  o'er  wastes  of  lily-haunted  field 

The  tired  birds  had  stayed  their  amorous  tune. 

And  broad  and  glittering  like  an  argent  shield 
High  in  the  sapphire  heavens  hung  the  moon, 

Did  no  strange  dream  or  evil  memory  make 

Each  trenmlous  petal  of  its  blossoms  shake  .^^ 

Ah  no!  to  this  bright  flower  a  thousand  years 
Seemed  but  the  lingering  of  a  summer's  day, 

It  never  knew  the  tide  of  cankering  fears 

Which  turn  a  boy's  gold  hair  to  withered  grey, 

The  dread  desire  of  death  it  never  knew, 

Or  how  all  folk  that  they  were  born  must  rue. 


96  WIND    FLOWERS 

For  we  to  death  with  pipe  and  dancing  go, 
Nor  would  we  pass  the  ivory  gate  again, 

As  some  sad  river  wearied  of  its  flow 

Through  the  dull  plains,  the  haunts  of  common  men. 

Leaps  lover-like  into  the  terrible  sea ! 

And  counts  it  gain  to  die  so  gloriously. 

We  mar  our  lordly  strength  in  barren  strife 

With  the  world's  legions  led  by  clamorous  care. 

It  never  feels  decay  but  gathers  life 

From  the  pure  sunlight  and  the  supreme  air, 

We  live  beneath  Time's  wasting  sovereignty. 

It  is  the  child  of  all  eternity. 


WIND    FLOWERS  97 

SERENADE 

(for   music) 

THE  western  wind  is  blowing  fair 
Across  the  dark  ^Egean  sea, 
And  at  the  secret  marble  stair 

Mj  Tjrian  galley  waits  for  thee. 
Come  down !  the  pui-ple  sail  is  spread, 

The  watcliman  sleeps  within  the  toTVTi, 
O  leave  thy  lily-flowered  bed, 

O  Lady  mine  come  down,  come  down ! 

She  will  not  come,  I  know  her  well. 

Of  lover's  vows  she  hath  no  care, 
And  little  good  a  man  can  tell 

Of  one  so  cruel  and  so  fair. 
True  love  is  but  a  ^voman's  to}-. 

They  never  know  the  lover's  pain, 
And  I  who  loved  as  loves  a  boy 

Must  love  in  vain,  must  love  in  vain. 

O  noble  pilot  tell  me  true 

Is  that  the  sheen  of  golden  hair? 
Or  is  it  but  the  tangled  dew 

That  binds  the  passion-flowers  there? 


98  WIND    FLOWERS 

Good  sailor  come  and  tell  me  now 
Is  that  my  Lady's  lily  hand? 

Or  is  it  but  the  gleaming  prow, 
Or  is  it  but  the  silver  sand? 

No !  no !  'tis  not  the  tangled  dew, 

'Tis  not  the  silver-fretted  sand. 
It  is  my  own  dear  Lady  true 

With  golden  hair  and  lily  hand! 
O  noble  pilot  steer  for  Troy, 

Good  sailor  ply  the  labouring  oar, 
This  is  the  Queen  of  life  and  joy 

Whom  we  must  bear  from  Grecian  shore! 

The  waning  sky  grows  faint  and  blue, 

It  wants  an  hour  still  of  day. 
Aboard !  aboard !  my  gallant  crew, 

O  Lady  mine  away !  away ! 
O  noble  pilot  steer  for  Troy, 

Good  sailor  ply  the  labouring  oar, 
O  loved  as  only  loves  a  boy ! 

O  loved  for  ever  evermore! 


WIND    FLOWERS  99 


ENDYMION 

(for     Ml' sic) 

THE  applc-trccs  are  liung  with  gold, 
And  birds  are  loud  in  Arcady, 
The  sheep  lie  bleating  in  the  fold, 
The  wild  goat  runs  across  the  wold. 
But  yesterday  his  love  he  told, 

I  know  he  will  come  back  to  me. 
O  rising  moon !  O  Lady  moon  ! 

Be  you  my  lover's  sentinel. 

You  cannot  choose  but  know  him  well. 
For  he  is  shod  with  purple  shoon. 
You  cannot  choose  but  know  my  love, 

For  he  a  shepherd's  crook  doth  bear, 
And  he  is  soft  as  any  dove. 

And  brown  and  curly  is  his  hair. 

The  turtle  now  has  ceased  to  call 
Upon  her  crimson-footed  groom, 

The  grey  wolf  prowls  about  the  stall, 

The  lily's  singing  seneschal 

Sleeps  in  the  lily-bell,  and  all 
The  violet  hills  are  lost  in  gloom. 


100  WIND    FLOWERS 

O  risen  moon  !  O  holy  moon ! 

Stand  on  the  top  of  Helice, 

And  if  my  own  true  love  you  see, 
Ah!  if  you  see  the  purple  shoon, 
The  hazel  crook,  the  lad's  brown  hair. 

The  goat-skin  wrapped  about  his  arm, 
Tell  him  that  I  am  waiting  where 

The  rushlight  glimmers  in  the  Farm. 

The  falling  dew  is  cold  and  chill, 
^^  And  no  bird  sings  in  Arcady, 
The  little  fawns  have  left  the  hill. 
Even  the  tired  daffodil 
Has  closed  its  gilded  doors,  and  still 

My  lover  comes  not  back  to  me. 
False  moon !  False  moon !  O  waning  moon ! 

Where  is  my  own  true  lover  gone. 

Where  are  the  lips  vermilion. 
The  shepherd's  crook,  the  purple  shoon  .^ 
Why  spread  that  silver  pavilion, 

Why  wear  that  veil  of  drifting  mist.? 
Ah!  thou  hast  young  Endymion, 

Thou  hast  the  lips  that  should  be  kissed! 


WIND    FLOWERS 


LA  BELLA  DONNA  BELLA  MIA  :\IENTE 

MY  limbs  are  wasted  with  a  flame, 
]\Iy  feet  are  sore  with  travelling, 
For  calling  on  my  Lady's  name 
My  lips  have  now  forgot  to  sing. 

O  Linnet  in  the  wild-rose  brake 
Strain  for  my  Love  thy  melody, 

O  Lark  sing  louder  for  love's  sake, 
My  gentle  Lady  passeth  by. 

[O  almond-blossoms  bend  adown 
Until  ye  reach  her  drooping  head; 

O  twining  branches  weave  a  crown 
Of  apple-blossoms  white  and  red.] 

She  is  too  fair  for  any  man 

To  see  or  hold  his  heart's  delight. 

Fairer  than  Queen  or  courtezan 
Or  moon-lit  water  in  the  night. 

Her  hair  is  bound  with  myrtle  leaves, 
(Green  leaves  upon  her  golden  hair!) 

Green  grasses  through  the  yellow  sheaves 
Of  autumn  corn  are  not  more  fair. 


102  WIND    FLOWERS 

Her  little  lips,  more  made  to  kiss 
Than  to  cry  bitterly  for  pain, 

Are  tremulous  as  brook-water  is, 
Or  roses  after  evening  rain. 

Her  neck  is  like  white  melilote 

Flushing  for  pleasure  of  the  sun, 

The  throbbing  of  the  linnet's  throat 
Is  not  so  sweet  to  look  upon. 

As  a  pomegranate,  cut  in  twain. 

White-seeded,  is  her  crimson  mouth. 

Her  cheeks  are  as  the  fading  stain 

Where  the  peach  reddens  to  the  south. 

O  twining  hands !  O  delicate 

White  body  made  for  love  and  pain ! 

O  House  of  love !  O  desolate 

Pale  flower  beaten  by  the  rain! 

[God  can  bring  Winter  unto  May, 
And  change  the  sky  to  flame  and  blue. 

Or  summer  corn  to  gold  from  grey: 
One  thing  alone  He  cannot  do. 

He  cannot  change  my  love  to  hate. 
Or  make  thy  face  less  fair  to  see. 

Though  now  He  knocketh  at  the  gate 
With  life  and  death — for  you  and  me.] 


WIND    FLOWERS  103 


CHANSON 

A      RING  of  gold  and  a  milk-white  dove 
-^  ^       Are  goodly  gifts  for  thee, 
And  a  hempen  rope  for  your  own  love 
To  hang  upon  a  tree. 

For  you  a  House  of  Ivory 

(Roses  are  white  in  the  rose-bower)! 
A  narrow  bed  for  me  to  lie 

(White,  O  white,  is  the  hemlock  flower)  ! 

Myrtle  and  jessamine  for  3'ou 
(O  the  red  rose  is  fair  to  see)  ! 
'or  me  the  cypress  and  the  rue 
(Fairest  of  all  is  rosemary)  ! 

For  you  three  lovers  of  your  hand 

(Green  grass  where  a  man  lies  dead)  ! 

For  me  three  paces  on  the  sand 
(Plant  lilies  at  my  head)  ! 


CHARMIDES 


i 


CHARMIDES 


T  T  E  was  a  Grecian  lad,  wlio  coming  home 
^  -*■      With  pulpy  figs  and  wine  from  Sicily 
Stood  at  his  galley's  prow,  and  let  the  foam 

Blow  through  his  crisp  brown  curls  unconsciously, 
And  holding  wave  and  wind  in  boy's  despite 
Peered  from  his  dripping  seat  across  the  wet  and  stormy 
night 

Till  with  the  dawn  he  saw  a  burnished  spear 
Like  a  thin  thread  of  gold  against  the  sky. 

And  hoisted  sail,  and  strained  the  creaking  gear, 
And  bade  the  pilot  head  her  lustily 

Against  the  nor'west  gale,  and  all  day  long 

Held   on   his   way,   and   marked   the   rowers'   time   with 
measured  song. 

And  when  the  faint  Corinthian  hills  were  red 

Dropped  anchor  in  a  little  sandy  bay. 
And  with  fresh  boughs  of  olive  crowned  his  head, 

And  brushed  from  cheek  and  throat  the  hoary  spray, 
And  washed  his  limbs  with  oil,  and  from  the  hold 
Brought  out  his  linen  tunic  and  his  sandals  brazen-soled, 

107 


108  CHARMIDES 

And  a  rich  robe  stained  with  the  fishes'  juice 
Which  of  some  swarthy  trader  he  had  bought 

Upon  the  sunny  quay  at  Syracuse, 

And  was  with  Tyr'mn  broideries  inwrought, 

And  by  the  questioning  merchants  made  his  way 

Up  through  the  soft  and  silver  woods,  and  when  the 
labouring  day 

Had  spun  its  tangled  web  of  crimson  cloud, 
Clomb  the  high  hill,  and  with  swift  silent  feet 

Crept  to  the  fane  unnoticed  by  the  crowd 
Of  busy  priests,  and  from  some  dark  retreat 

Watched  the  young  swains  his  frolic  playmates  bring 

The  firstling  of  their  little  flock,  and  the  shy  shepherd 
fling 

The  crackling  salt  upon  the  flame,  or  hang 
His  studded  crook  against  the  temple  wall 

To  Her  who  keeps  away  the  ravenous  fang 

Of  the  base  wolf  from  homestead  and  from  stall; 

And  then  the  clear-voiced  maidens  'gan  to  sing. 

And  to  the  altar  each  man  brought  some  goodly  offering, 

A  beechen  cup  brimming  with  milky  foam, 
A  fair  cloth  wrought  with  cunning  imagery 

Of  hounds  in  chase,  a  waxen  honey-comb 

Dripping  with  oozy  gold  which  scarce  the  bee 

Had  ceased  from  building,  a  black  skin  of  oil 

Meet  for  the  wrestlers,  a  great  boar  the  fierce  and  white- 
tusked  spoil 


CHARMIDES  109 

Stolen  from  Artemis  that  jealous  maid 
To  please  Athena,  and  the  dappled  hide 

Of  a  tall  stag  who  in  some  mountain  glade 

Had  met  the  shaft;  and  then  the  herald  cried, 

And  from  the  pillared  precinct  one  by  one 

Went  the  glad  Greeks  well  pleased  that  they  their  simple 
vows  had  done. 

And  the  old  priest  put  out  the  waning  fires 

Save  that  one  lamp  whose  restless   ruby   glowed 

For  ever  in  the  cell,  and  the  shrill  lyres 

Came  fainter  on  the  wind,  as  down  the  road 

In  joyous  dance  these  country  folk  did  pass. 

And  with  stout  hands  the  warder  closed  the  gates  of 
polished  brass. 

Long  time  he  lay  and  hardly  dared  to  breathe, 
And  heard  the  cadenced  drip  of  spilt-out  wine, 

And  the  rose-petals  falling  from  the  wreath 

As  the  night  breezes  wandered  through  the  shrine. 

And  seemed  to  be  in  some  entranced  swoon 

Till  through  the  open  roof  above  the  full  and  brimming 
moon 

Flooded  with  sheeny  waves  the  marble  floor. 

When  from  his  nook  upleapt  the  venturous  lad, 

And  flinging  wide  the  cedar-carven  door 
Beheld  an  awful  image  safi^ron-clad 

And  armed  for  battle !  the  gaunt  Griffin  glared 

From  the  huge  helm,  and  tlie  long  lance  of  wreck  and 
ruin  flared 


110  CHARMIDES 

Like  a  red  rod  of  flame,  stony  and  steeled 

The  Gorgon's  head  its  leaden  eyeballs  rolled, 

And  writhed  its  snaky  horrors  through  the  shield. 
And  gaped  aghast  with  bloodless  lips  and  cold 

In  passion  impotent,  while  with  blind  gaze 

The  blinking  owl  between  the  feet  hooted  in  shrill  amaze. 

The  lonely  fisher  as  he  trimmed  his  lamp 

Far  out  at  sea  off  Sunium,  or  cast 
The  net  for  tunnies,  heard  a  brazen  tramp 

Of  horses  smite  the  waves,  and  a  wild  blast 
Divide  the  folded  curtains  of  the  night. 
And  knelt   upon  the  little  poop,   and  prayed   in   holy 
fright. 

And  guilty  lovers  in  their  venery 

Forgat  a  little  while  their  stolen  sweets. 

Deeming  they  heard  dread  Dian's  bitter  cry ; 
And  the  grim  watchmen  on  their  lofty  seats 

Ran  to  their  shields  in  haste  precipitate. 

Or  strained  black-bearded  throats  across  the  dusky  par- 
apet. 

For  round  the  temple  rolled  the  clang  of  arms, 
And  the  twelve  Gods  leapt  up  in  marble  fear. 

And  the  air  quaked  with  dissonant  alarums 
Till  huge  Poseidon  shook  his  mighty  spear. 

And  on  the  frieze  the  prancing  horses  neighed, 

And  the  low  tread  of  hurrying  feet  rang  from  the  cav- 
alcade. 


I 
I 


CHARMIDES  111 

Ready  for  death  wltli  parted  lips  lie  stood, 

And  well  content  at  such  a  price  to  see 
That   calm  ^nde  brow,  that  terrible  maidenhood, 

The  marvel  of  that  pitiless  chastity. 
Ah  !  well  content  indeed,  for  never  wight 
Since  Troy's  young  shepherd  prince  had  seen  so  won- 
derful a  sight. 
/ 
Ready  for  death  he  stood,  but  lo !  the  air 

Grew  silent,  and  the  horses  ceased  to  neigh, 
And  off  his  brow  he  tossed  the  clustering  hair, 

And  from  his  limbs  he  threw  the  cloak  away, 
P'or  whom  would  not  such  love  make  desperate. 
And   nigher  came,  and   touched  her  throat,   and  with 
hands  violate 

Undid  the  cuirass,  and  the  crocus  gown, 
And  bared  the  breasts  of  polished  ivory. 

Till  from  the  waist  the  peplos  falling  down 
Left  visible  the  secret  mystery 

Which  to  no  lover  will  Athena  show. 

The  grand  cool  flanks,  the  crescent  thighs,  the  bossy 
hills  of  snow. 

[Those  who  have  never  known  a  lover's  sin 
Let  them  not  read  my  ditty,  it  will  be 

To  their  dull  ears  so  musicless  and  thin 
That  they  will  have  no  joy  of  it,  but  ye 

To  whose  wan  cheeks  now  creeps  the  lingering  smile. 

Ye  who  have  learned  who  Eros  is, — O  listen  yet  awhile.] 


112  CHARMIDES 

A  little  space  he  let  his  greedy  eyes 

Rest  on  the  burnished  image,  till  mere  sight 

Half  swooned  for  surfeit  of  such  luxuries, 
And  then  his  lips  in  hungering  delight 

Fed  on  her  lips,  and  round  the  towered  neck 

He  flung  his  arms,  nor  cared  at  all  his  passion's  will  to 
check. 

Never  I  ween  did  lover  hold  such  tryst, 

For  all  night  long  he  murmured  honeyed  word. 

And  saw  her  sweet  unravished  limbs,  and  kissed 
Her  pale  and  argent  body  undisturbed. 

And  paddled  with  the  polished  throat,  and  pressed 

His  hot  and  beating  heart  upon  her  chill  and  icy  breast. 

It  was  as  if  Numidian  javelins 

Pierced  through  and  through  his  wild  and  whirling 
brain. 
And  his  nerv^es  thrilled  like  throbbing  violins 

In  exquisite  pulsation,  and  the  pain 
Was  such  sweet  anguish  that  he  never  drew 
His  lips  from  hers  till  overhead  the  lark  of  warning  flew. 

[They  who  have  never  seen  the  daylight  peer 
Into  a  darkened  room,  and  drawn  the  curtain. 

And  with  dull  eyes  and  wearied  from  some  dear 
And  worshipped  body  risen,  they  for  certain 

Will  never  know  of  what  I  try  to  sing. 

How  long  the  last  kiss  was,  how  fond  and  late  his  linger- 
ing.] 


CHARMIDES  113 

The  iiioon  was  girdled  with  a  crystal  rlni, 
The  sign  which  shipmcn  say  is  ominous 

Of  wrath  in  heaven,  the  wan  stars  were  dim, 
And  the  low  lightening  east  was  tremulous 

With  the  faint  fluttering  wings  of  flying  dawn, 

Ere  from  the  silent  sombre  shrine  this  lover  had  with- 
drawn. 

Down  the  steep  rock  with  hurried  feet  and  fast 
C'lomb  the  brave  lad,  and  reached  the  cave  of  Pan, 

And  heard  the  goat-foot  snoring  as  he  passed, 
And  leapt  upon  a  grassy  knoll  and  ran 

Like  a  young  fawn  unto  an  olive  wood 

"Which  in  a  shady  valley  by  the  well-built  city  stood. 

And  sought  a  little  stream,  which  well  lie  knew, 
For  oftentimes  with  boyish  careless  shout 

The  green  and  crested  grebe  he  would  pursue, 
Or  snare  in  woven  net  the  silver  trout, 

And  down  amid  the  startled  reeds  he  lay 

Panting  in  breathless  sweet  affright,  and  waited  for  the 
day. 

On  the  green  ])ank  he  lay,  and  let  one  hand 

Dip  in  the  cool  dark  eddies  listlessly, 
And  soon  the  breath  of  morning  came  and  fanned 

Ills  hot  flushed  cheeks,  or  lifted  wantonly 
The  tangled  curls  from  off  his  forehead,  while 
He  on  the  running  water  gazed  with  strange  and  secret 
smile. 


114  CHARMIDES 

And  soon  the  shepherd  in  rough  woollen  cloak 
With  his  long  crook  undid  the  wattled  cotes, 

And  from  the  stack  a  thin  blue  wreath  of  smoke 
Curled  through  the  air  across  the  ripening  oats, 

And  on  the  hill  the  yellow  house-dog  bayed 

As  through  the  crisp  and  rustling  fern  the  heavy  cattle 
strayed. 

And  when  the  light-foot  mower  went  afield 
Across  the  meadows  laced  with  threaded  dew, 

And  the  sheep  bleated  on  the  misty  weald, 

And  from  its  nest  the  waking  corn-crake  flew, 

Some  woodmen  saw  him  lying  by  the  stream 

And  mai-A^elled  much  that  any  lad  so  beautiful  could 
seem, 

Nor  deemed  him  bom  of  mortals,  and  one  said, 
"It  is  young  Hylas,  that  false  runaway 

Who  with  a  Naiad  now^  would  make  his  bed 
Forgetting  Herakles,"  but  others,  "Nay, 

It  is  Narcissus,  his  own  paramour, 

Those  are  the  fond   and  crimson  lips   no   woman  can 
allure." 

And  when  they  nearer  came  a  third  one  cried, 

"It  is  young  Dionysos  who  has  hid 
His  spear  and  fawnskin  by  the  river  side 

Weary  of  hunting  with  the  Bassarid, 
And  wise  indeed  were  we  away  to  fly 
They  live  not  long  who  on  the  gods  immortal  come  to 

spy." 


CHARMIDES  115 

So  turned  tlicy  back,  and  feared  to  look  behind, 
And  told  the  timid  swain  how  they  had  seen 

Amid  the  reeds  some  woodland  God  recHned, 
And  no  man  dared  to  cross  the  open  green. 

And  on  that  day  no  olive-tree  was  slain. 

Nor  rushes  cut,  but  all  deserted  was  the  fair  domain. 

Save  when  the  neat-herd's  lad,  his  empty  pail 
Well  slung  upon  his  back,  w  ith  leap  and  bound 

Raced  on  the  other  side,  and  stopped  to  hail 
Hoping  that  he  some  comrade  new  had  found. 

And  gat  no  answer,  and  then  half  afraid 

Passed  on  his  simple  way,  or  down  the  still  and  silent 
glade 

A  little  girl  ran  laughing  from  the  farm 

Not  thinking  of  love's  secret  mysteries, 
And  wlien  she  saw  the  white  and  gleaming  arm 

xVnd  all  his  manlihood,  with  longing  eyes 
Whose  passion  mocked  her  sweet  virginity 
Watched   him    awhile,   and   then   stole   back   sadly    and 
wearily. 

Far  oflp'  lie  heard  the  city's  hum  and  noise, 

And  now  and  then  the  shriller  laughter  where 

The  passionate  purity  of  brown-limbed  boys 
Wrestled  or  raced  in  the  clear  healthful  air, 

And  now  and  then  a  little  tinkling  bell 

As  the  shorn  wether  led  the  sheep  down  to  the  mossy' 
well. 


116  CHARMIDES  I 

Through  the  grey  willows  danced  the  fretful  gnat, 
The  grasshopper  chirped  idly  from  the  tree, 

In  sleek  and  oily  coat  the  water-rat 
Breasting  the  little  ripples  manfully 

Made  for  the  wild-duck's  nest,  from  bough  to  bough 

Hopped  the  shy  finch,  and  the  huge  tortoise  crept  across 
the  slough. 

On  the  faint  wind  floated  the  silky  seeds  i| 

As  the  bright  scythe  swept  through  the  waving  grass. 

The  ousel-cock  splashed  circles  in  the  reeds 

And  flecked  with  silver  whorls  the  forest's  glass,         | 

Which  scarce  had  caught  again  its  imagery 

Ere  from  its  bed  the  dusky  tench  leapt  at  the  dragon-fly. 

But  little  care  had  he  for  an}'  thing 

Though  up  and  down  the  beech  the  squirrel  played. 
And  from  the  copse  the  linnet  'gan  to  sing 

To  her  brown  mate  her  sweetest  serenade. 
Ah !  little  care  indeed,  for  he  had  seen 
The  breasts  of  Pallas  and  the  naked  wonder  of  the  Queen. 

But  when  the  herdsman  called  his  straggling  goats 

With  whisthng  pipe  across  the  rocky  road, 
And  the  shard-beetle  with  its  trumpet-notes 

Boomed  through  the  darkening  woods,  and  seemed  to 
bode 
Of  coming  storm,  and  the  belated  crane 
Passed  homeward  like  a  shadow,  and  the  dull  big  drops 
of  rain 


CHARMIDES  117 

Fell  on  tlie  pattering  fig-leaves,  up  he  rose, 
And  from  the  gloomy  forest  went  his  way 

Passed  sombre  homestead  and  wet  orchard-close, 
And  came  at  last  unto  a  little  quay, 

And  called  his  mates  aboard,  and  took  his  seat 

On  the  hioli  poop,  and  pushed  from  land,  and  loosed  the 
dripping  sheet. 

And  steered  across  the  bay,  and  when  nine  suns 
Passed  down  the  long  and  laddered  way  of  gold. 

And  nine  pale  moons  had  breathed  their  orisons 
To  the  chaste  stars  their  confessors,  or  told 

Their  dearest  secret  to  the  do^\^l3^  moth 

That  will  not  fly  at  noonday,  through  the  foam  and 
surging  froth 

Came  a  great  owl  with  yellow  sulphurous  eyes 
And  lit  upon  the  shij),  whose  timbers  creaked 

As  though  the  lading  of  three  argosies 

Were  in  the  hold,  and  flapped  its  wings,  and  shrieked, 

And  darkness  straightway  stole  across  the  deep. 

Sheathed  was  Orion's   sword,  dread  Mars  himself  fled 
down  the  steep. 

And  the  moon  hid  behind  a  tawny  mask 

Of  drifting  cloud,   and   from   the  ocean\s   marge 

Rose  the  red  plume,  the  huge  and  honied  casque. 
The  seven-cubit  spear,  the  brazen  targe! 

And  clad  in  bright  and  burnished  pan()j)ly 

Athena  strode  across  the  stretch  of  sick  and  shivering 
sea ! 


118  CHARMIDES 

To  the  dull  sailors'  sight  her  loosened  locks 

Seemed  like  the  jagged  storm- rack,  and  her  feet 

Only  the  spume  that  floats  on  hidden  rocks, 
And,  marking  how  the  rising  waters  beat 

Against  the  rolling  ship,  the  pilot  cried 

To  the  young  helmsman  at  the  stern  to  luff  to  windward 
side. 

But  he,  the  overbold  adulterer, 

A  dear  profaner  of  great  mysteries, 
An  ardent  amorous  idolater. 

When  he  beheld  those  grand  relentless  eyes 
Laughed  loud  for  joy,  and  crying  out  "I  come" 
Leapt  from  the  lofty  poop  into  the  chill  and  churning 
foam. 

Then  fell  from  the  high  heaven  one  bright  star, 

One  dancer  left  the  circling  galaxy. 
And  back  to  Athens  on  her  clattering  car 

In  all  the  pride  of  venged  divinity 
Pale  Pallas  swept  with  shrill  and  steely  clank, 
And  a  few  gurgling  bubbles  rose  where  her  boy  lover 
sank. 

And  the  mast  shuddered  as  the  gaunt  owl  flew 
With  mocking  hoots  after  the  wrathful  Queen, 

And  the  old  pilot  bade  the  trembling  crew 
Hoist  the  big  sail,  and  told  how  he  had  seen 

Close  to  the  stern  a  dim  and  giant  form, 

And    like    a    dipping    swallow    the    stout    ship    dashed 
through  the  storm. 


CHARMIDES  119 

And  no  man  dared  to  speak  of  Channidcs, 

Deeming  that  he  some  evil  thing  had  wrought, 

And  when  they  reached  the  strait  Symplegadcs 

They  beached  their  galley  on  the  shore,  and  sought 

The  toll-gate  of  the  city  hastily, 

And  in   the  market  showed  their   brown  and   pictured 
pottery. 


120  CHARMIDES 


II 

T)  UT  some  good  Triton-god  had  ruth,  and  bare 
^-^      The  boy's  dro^vned  body  back  to  Grecian  land, 
And  mermaids  combed  his  dank  and  dripping  hair 

And   smoothed   his    brow,   and   loosed   his    clencliing 
hand. 
Some  brought  sweet  spices  from  far  Araby, 
And  others  bade  the  halcyon  sing  her  softest  lullaby. 

And  when  he  neared  his  old  Athenian  home, 

A  mighty  billow  rose  up  suddenly 
Upon  whose  oily  back  the  clotted  foam 

Lay  diapered  in  some  strange  phantasy, 
And  clasping  him  unto  its  glassy  breast, 
Swept  landward,  like  a  white-maned  steed  upon  a  ven- 
turous quest ! 

Now  where  Colonos  leans  unto  the  sea 

There  lies  a  long  and  level  stretch  of  lawn. 

The  rabbit  knows  it,  and  the  mountain  bee 
For  it  deserts  Hymettus,  and  the  Faun 

Is  not  afraid,  for  never  through  the  day 

Comes  a  cry  ruder  than  the  shout  of  shepherd  lads  at 
play. 


CHARMIDES  121 

But  often  from  the  thoniy  labyrinth 

And  tangled  branches  of  the  circling  wood 

The  stealthy  hunter  sees  young  Hyacinth 

Hurling  the  polished  disk,  and  draws  his  hood 

Over  his  guilty  gaze,  and  creeps  away, 

Nor  dares  to  wind  his  horn,  or — else  at  the  first  break 
of  day 

The  Dryads  come  and  throw  the  leathern  ball 
Along  the  reedy  shore,  and  circumvent 

Some  goat-eared  Pan  to  be  their  seneschal 
For  fear  oi  bold  Poseidon's  ravishment. 

And  loose  their  girdles,  with  shy  timorous  eyes. 

Lest  from  the  surf  his  azure  arms   and  purple  beard 
should  rise. 

On  this  side  and  on  that  a  rocky  cave, 

Hung  with  the  3'ellow-bell'd  laburnum,  stands, 

Smooth  is  the  beach,  save  where  some  ebbing  wave 
Leaves  its  faint  outline  etched  upon  the  sands, 

As  though  it  feared  to  be  too  soon  forgot 

By  the  green  rush,  its  playfellow, — and  yet,  it  is  a  spot 

So  small,  that  the  inconstant  butterfly 

Could  steal  the  hoarded  honey  from  each  flower 

Ere  it  was  noon,  and  still  not  satisfy 
Its  over-greedy  love, — within   an   hour 

A  sailor-boy,  were  lie  but  rude  enow 

To  land  and  pluck  a  garland  for  his  galley's  painted 
Drow, 


122  CHARMIDES 

Would  almost  leave  the  little  meadow  bare, 
For  it  knows  nothing  of  great  pageantry, 

Only  a  few  narcissi  here  and  there 
Stand  separate  in  sweet  austerity, 

Dotting  the  unmown  grass  with  silver  stars. 

And  here  and  there  a  daffodil  waves  tiny  scimitars. 

Hither  the  billow  brought  him,  and  was  glad 
Of  such  dear  serv^itude,  and  where  the  land 

Was  virgin  of  all  waters  laid  the  lad 
Upon  the  golden  margent  of  the  strand, 

And  like  a  lingering  lover  oft  returned 

To  kiss  those  pallid  limbs  which  once  with  intense  fire 
burned. 

Ere  the  wet  seas  had  quenched  that  holocaust, 
That  self-fed  flame,  that  passionate  lustihead. 

Ere  grisly  death  with  chill  and  nipping  frost 
Had  withered  up  those  lilies  white  and  red 

Which,  while  the  boy  would  through  the  forest  range. 

Answered   each   other   in   a   sweet   antiphonal   counter- 
change. 

And  when  at  dawn  the  wood-nymphs,  hand-in-hand, 
Threaded  the  bosky  dell,  their  satyr  spied 

The  boy's  pale  body  stretched  upon  the  sand. 
And  feared  Poseidon's  treachery,  and  cried. 

And  like  bright  sunbeams  flitting  through  a  glade, 

Each  startled  Dryad  sought  some  safe  and  leafy  ambus- 
cade. 


CHARMIDES  123 

Save  one  white  girl,  who  deemed  it  would  not  be 
So  dread  a  thing  to  feci  a  sea-god's  arms 

Crushing  her  breasts  in  amorous  tyranny, 
And  longed  to  listen  to  those  subtle  cliarms 

Insidious  lovers  weave  when  they  would  win 

Some  fenced  fortress,  and  stole  back  again,  nor  thought 
it  sin 

To  yield  her  treasure  unto  one  so  fair, 

And  lay  beside  him,  thirsty  with  love's  drouth, 

Called  him  soft  names,  played  with  his  tangled  hair, 
And  with  hot  lips  made  havoc  of  his  mouth. 

Afraid  he  might  not  wake,  and  then  afraid 

Lest  he  might  wake  too  soon,  fled  back,  and  then,  fond 
renegade, 

Returned  to  fresh  assault,  and  all  day  long 
Sat  at  his  side,  and  laughed  at  her  new  toy. 

And  held  his  hand,  and  sang  her  sweetest  song, 
Then  frowned  to  see  how  froward  was  the  boy 

Who  would  not  with  her  maidenhood  entwine, 

Nor  knew  that  three  days  since  his  eyes  had  looked  on 
Proserpine, 

Nor  knew  what  sacrilege  his  lips  had  done. 
But  said,  "He  will  awake,  I  know  him  well, 

He  will  awake  at  evening  when  the  sun 

Hangs  his  red  shield  on  Corinth's  citadel. 

This  sleep  is  but  a  cruel  treachery 

To  make  me  love  him  more,  and  in  some  cavern  of  the 


124  CHARMIDES 

Deeper  than  ever  falls  the  fisher's  line 
Already  a  huge  Triton  blows  his  horn, 

And  weaves  a  garland  from  the  crystalline 
And  drifting  ocean-tendrils  to  adorn 

The  emerald  pillars  of  our  bridal  bed, 

For  SDhered  in  foaming  silver,  and  with  coral-crowned 
head. 

We  two  will  sit  upon  a  throne  of  pearl. 

And  a  blue  wave  will  be  our  canopy, 
And  at  our  feet  the  water-snakes  will  curl 

In  all  their  amethystine  panoply 
Of  diamonded  mail,  and  we  will  mark 
The  mullets  swimming  by  the  mast  of  some  storm-foun- 
dered bark, 

Vermilion-finned  with  eyes  of  bossy  gold 

Like  flakes  of  crimson  light,  and  the  great  deep 

His  glassy-portaled  chamber  will  unfold. 
And  we  will  see  the  painted  dolphins  sleep 

Cradled  by  murmuring  halcyons  on  the  rocks 

Where  Proteus  in  quaint  suit  of  green  pastures  his  mon- 
strous flocks. 

And  tremulous  opal-huea  anemones 

Will  wave  their  purple  fringes  where  we  tread 
Upon  the  mirrored  floor,  and  argosies 

Of  fishes  flecked  with  tawny  scales  will  thread 
The  drifting  cordage  of  the  shattered  wreck. 
And  honey-coloured  amber  beads  our  twining  limbs  will 
deck." 


CHARMIDES  12S 

But  when  tliat  baffled  Lord  of  War  the  Sun 
With  gaudy  pennon  flying  passed  away 

Into  his  brazen  House,  and  one  by  one 
Tlie  little  yellow  stars  began  to  stray 

Across  the  field  of  heaven,  ah !  then  indeed 

She  feared  his  lips  upon  her  lips  would  never  care  to 
feed, 

And  cried,  "Awake,  already  the  pale  moon 
Washes  the  trees  with  silver,  and  the  wave 

Creeps  grey  and  chilly  up  this  sandy  dune. 
The  croaking  frogs  are  out,  and  from  the  cave 

The  night- jar  shrieks,  the  fluttering  bats  repass, 

And  the  brown  stoat  with  hollow  flanks  creeps  through 
the  dusky  grass. 

Nay,  though  thou  art  a  God,  be  not  so  coy, 

For  in  yon  stream  there  is  a  little  reed 
That  often  whispers  how  a  lovely  boy 

Lay  with  her  once  upon  a  grassy  mead, 
W^ho  when  his  cruel  pleasure  he  had  done 
Spread  wrings  of  rustling  gold  and  soared  aloft  into  the 
sun. 

Be  not  so  coy,  the  laurel  trembles  still 
With  great  Apollo's  kisses,  and  the  fir 

Whose  clustering  sisters  fringe  the  seaward  hill 
Hath  many  a  tale  of  that  bold  ravisher 

Whom  men  call  Boreas,  and  I  have  seen 

The  mocking  eyes  of  Hermes  through  the  poplar's  sil- 
very sheen. 


126  CHARMIDES 

Even  the  jealous  Naiads  call  me  fair, 

And  every  morn  a  young  and  ruddy  swain 

Woos  me  with  apples  and  with  locks  of  hair, 
And  seeks  to  soothe  my  virginal  disdain 

By  all  the  gifts  the  gentle  wood-nymphs  love; 

But  yesterday  he  brought  to  me  an  iris-plumaged  dove 

With  little  crimson  feet,  which  with  its  store 

Of  seven  spotted  eggs  the  cruel  lad 
Had  stolen  from  the  lofty  sycamore 

At  daybreak,  when  her  amorous  comrade  had 
Flown  off  in  search  of  berried  juniper 
Which  most  they  love ;  the  fretful  wasp,  that  earliest 
vintager 

Of  the  blue  grapes,  hath  not  persistency 

So  constant  as  this  simple  shepherd-boy 
For  my  poor  lips,  his  joyous  purity 

And  laughing  sunny  eyes  might  well  decoy 
A  Dryad  from  her  oath  to  Artemis ; 
For  very  beautiful  is  he,  his  mouth  was  made  to  kiss, 

His  argent  forehead,  like  a  rising  moon 

Over  the  dusky  hills  of  meeting  brows. 
Is  crescent-shaped,  the  hot  and  Tyrian  noon 

Leads  from  the  myrtle-grove  no  goodlier  spouse 
For  Cythersea,  the  first  silky  down 
Fringes  his  blushing  cheeks,  and  his  young  limbs  are 
strong  and  brown : 


CHARMIDES  127 

And  he  is  ricli,  and   fat  and  ficecy  herds 
Of  bleating  sheep  upon  his  meadows  He, 

And  many  an  earthen  bowl  of  yellow  curds 
Is  in  his  homestead  for  the  thievish  fly 

To  swim  and  drown  in,  the  pink  clover  mead 

Keeps  its  sweet  store  for  him,  and  he  can  pipe  on  oaten 
reed. 

And  yet  I  love  him  not,  it  was  for  thee 

I  kept  my  love,  I  knew  that  thou  would'st  come 

To  rid  me  of  this  pallid  chastity ; 

Thou  fairest  flower  of  the  flowerless  foam 

Of  all  the  wide  ^Egean,  brightest  star 

Of  ocean's  azure  heavens  where  the  mirrored  planets  are ! 

I  knew  that  thou  would'st  come,  for  when  at  first 
The  dry  wood  burgeoned,  and  the  sap  of  Spring 

Swelled  in  ni}^  green  and  tender  bark  or  burst 
To  mj'riad  multitudinous  blossoming 

Which  mocked  the  midnight  with  its  mimic  moons 

That  did  not  dread  the  dawn,  and  first  the  thrushes'  rap- 
turous tunes 

Startled  the  squirrel  from  its  granary, 

And  cuckoo  flowers  fringed  the  narrow  lane. 

Through  my  young  leaves  a  sensuous  ecstasy 
Crept  like  new  wine,  and  every  mossy  vein 

Til  robbed  with  the  fitful  pulse  of  amorous  blood, 

And   the   wild   winds   of   passion   shook   my   slim   stem's 
maidenhood. 


128  CHARMIDES 

The  trooping  fawns  at  evening  came  and  laid 
Their  cool  black  noses  on  my  lowest  boughs, 

And  on  my  topmost  branch  the  blackbird  made 
A  little  nest  of  grasses  for  his  spouse, 

And  now  and  then  a  twittering  wren  would  light 

On  a  thin  twig  which  hardly  bare  the  weight  of  such 
delight. 

I  was  the  Attic  shepherd's  trysting-place, 

Beneath  my  shadow  Amaryllis  lay. 
And  round  my  tiTink  would  laughing  Daphnis  chase 

The  timorous  girl,  till  tired  out  with  play 
She  felt  his  hot  breath  stir  her  tangled  hair. 
And  turned,  and  looked,  and  fled  no  more  from  such 
delightful  snare. 

Then  come  away  unto  my  ambuscade 

Where  clustering  woodbine  weaves  a  canopy 

For  amorous  pleasaunce,  and  the  rustling  shade 
Of  Paphian  myrtles  seems  to  sanctify 

The  dearest  rites  of  love,  there  in  the  cool 

And  green  recesses  of  its  farthest  depth  there  is  a  pool. 

The  ouzel's  haunt,  the  wild  bee's  pasturage. 
For  round  its  rim  great  creamy  lilies  float 

Through  their  flat  leaves  in  verdant  anchorage, 
Each  cup  a  white-sailed  golden-laden  boat 

Steered  by  a  dragon-fly, — be  not  afraid 

To  leave  this  wan  and  wave-kissed  shore,  surely  the  place 
was  made 


CHARMIDES  129 

For  lovers  sucli  as  we,  tlic  Cyprian  (^iKcn, 

One  arm  around  her  boyish  paramour, 
Strays  often  there  at  eve,  and  I  have  seen 

The  moon  strip  off  her  misty  vestiture 
For  young  Endymion's  eyes,  be  not  afraid, 
The  panther  feet  of  Dian  never  tread  that  secret  glade. 

Nay  if  thou  will'st,  back  to  the  beating  brine. 
Back  to  the  boisterous  billow  let  us  go, 

And  walk  all  day  beneath  the  hyaline 

Huge  vault  of  Neptune's  watery  portico. 

And  watch  the  purple  monsters  of  the  deep 

Sport  in  ungainly  play,  and  from  his  lair  keen  Xiphias 
leap. 

For  if  my  mistress  find  me  lying  here 

She  will  not  ruth  or  gentle  pity  show, 
But  lay  her  boar-spear  down,  and  with  austere 

Relentless  fingers  string  the  cornel  bow. 
And  draw  the  feathered  notch  against  her  breast. 
And    loose    the    arched    cord,  ay,  even    now    upon    the 
quest 

I  hear  her  hurrying  feet, — ^awake,  awake. 

Thou  laggard  in  love's  battle!  once  at  least 

Let  me  drink  deep  of  passion's  wine,  and  slake 
My  parched  being  with  the  nectarous  feast 

Which  even  Gods  affect!  O  come  Love  come. 

Still  we  have  time  to  reach  the  cavern  of  thine  azure 
home." 


130  CHARMIDES 

Scarce  had  she  spoken  when  the  shuddering  trees 
Shook,  and  the  leaves  divided,  and  the  air 

Grew  conscious  of  a  God,  and  the  grey  seas 

Crawled  backward,  and  a  long  and  dismal  blare 

Blew  from  some  tasselled  horn,  a  sleuth-hound  bayed, 

And  like  a  flame  a  barbed  reed  flew  whizzing  down  the 
glade. 

And  where  the  little  flowers  of  her  breast 
Just  brake  into  their  milky  blossoming, 

This  murderous  paramour,  this  unbidden  guest. 
Pierced  and  struck  deep  in  horrid  chambering, 

And  ploughed  a  bloody  furrow  with  its  dart, 

And  dug  a  long  red  road,  and  cleft  with  winged  death 
her  heart. 

Sobbing  her  life  out  with  a  bitter  cry 

On  the  boy's  body  fell  the  Dryad  maid. 
Sobbing  for  incomplete  virginity. 

And  raptures  unenjoyed,  and  pleasures  dead 
And  all  the  pain  of  things  unsatisfied. 
And  the  bright  drops  of  crimson  youth  crept  down  her 
throbbing  side. 

Ah !  pitiful  it  was  to  hear  her  moan, 

And  very  pitiful  to  see  her  die 
Ere  she  had  yielded  up  her  sweets,  or  known 

The  joy  of  passion,  that  dread  mystery 
Which  not  to  know  is  not  to  live  at  all. 
And  yet  to  know  is  to  be  held  in  death's  most  deadly 
thrall. 


CHARMIDES  131 

But  as  it  liapt  the  Queen  of  Cythere, 

Who  with  Adonis  all  night  long  had  lain 

Within  some  shepherd's  hut  in  Arcady, 
On  team  of  silver  doves  and  gilded  wain 

Was  journeying  Paphos-ward,  high  up  afar 

From  mortal  ken  between  the  mountains  and  the  morn- 
ing star, 

And  when  low  down  she  spied  the  hapless  pair, 
And  heard  the  Oread's  faint  despairing  cry, 

Whose  cadence  seemed  to  play  upon  the  air 
As  though  it  were  a  viol,  hastily 

She  bade  her  pigeons  fold  each  straining  plume, 

And  dropt  to  earth,  and  reached  the  strand,  and  saw 
their  dolorous  doom. 

For  as  a  gardener  turning  back  his  head 
To  catch  the  last  notes  of  the  linnet,  mows 

With  careless  scythe  too  near  some  flower-bed, 
And  cuts  the  thorny  pillar  of  the  rose. 

And  with  the  flower's  loosened  loveliness 

Strews  the  brown  mould,  or  as  some  shepherd  lad  in  wan- 
tonness 

Driving  his  little  flock  along  the  mead 

Treads  down  two  daffodils  which  side  b}''  side 

Have  lured  the  lad^'-bird  with  yellow  brede 
And  made  the  gaudy  moth  forget  its  pride, 

Treads  down  their  brimming  golden  chalices 

Under  light  feet  which  were  not  made   for  such  rude 
ravages, 


132  CHARMIDES  ^ 

Or  as  a  schoolboy  tired  of  his  book 

-  Flings  himself  down  upon  the  reedy  grass 
And  plucks  two  water-lilies  from  the  brook, 

And  for  a  time  forgets  the  hour  glass, 
Then  wearies  of  their  sweets,  and  goes  his  way. 
And  lets   the  hot   sun   kill  them,   even   so  these  lovers 
lay. 

And  Venus  cried,  "It  is  dread  Artemis 

Whose  bitter  hand  hath  wrought  this  cruelty, 

Or  else  that  mightier  maid  whose  care  it  is 
To  guard  her  strong  and  stainless  majesty 

Upon  the  hill  Athenian, — alas ! 

That  they  who  loved  so  well  unloved  into  Death's  house 
should  pass." 

So  with  soft  hands  she  laid  the  boy  and  girl 

In  the  great  golden  waggon  tenderly, 
Her  white  throat  whiter  than  a  moony  pearl 

Just  threaded  with  a*  blue  vein's  tapestry 
Had  not  yet  ceased  to  throb,  and  still  her  breast 
Swa3^ed  like  a  wind-stirred  lily  in  ambiguous  unr2st. 

And  then  each  pigeon  spread  its  milky  van. 
The  bright  car  soared  into  the  dawning  sky, 

And  like  a  cloud  the  aerial  caravan 
Passed  over  the  ^gean  silently. 

Till  the  faint  air  was  troubled  with  the  song 

From  the  wan  mouths  that  call  on  bleeding  Thammuz 
all  night  long. 


CHARMIDES  133 

But  when  the  doves  had  reached  their  wonted  goal 
Where  the  wide  stair  of  orbed  marble  dips 

Its  snows  into  the  sea,  her  fluttering  soul 
Just  shook  the  trembling  petals  of  her  lips 

And  passed  into  the  void,  and  Venus  knew 

That  one  fair  maid  the  less  would  walk  amid  her  retinue. 

And  bade  her  servants  cai'\e  a  cedar  chest 

With  all  the  wonder  of  this  history, 
Within  whose  scented  womb  their  limbs  should  rest 

Where  olive-trees  make  tender  the  blue  sky 
On  the  low  hills  of  Paphos,  and  the  faun 
Pipes  in  the  noonday,  and  the  nightingale  sings  on  till 
dawn. 

Nor  failed  they  to  obey  her  hest,  and  ere 

The  morning  bee  had  stung  the  daffodil 
With  tiny  fretful  spear,  or  from  its  lair 

The  waking  stag  had  leapt  across  the  rill 
And  roused  the  ouzel,  or  the  lizard  crept 
Athwart  the  sunny  rock,  beneath  the  grass  their  bodies 
slept. 

And  when  day  brake,  within  that  silver  shrine 
Fed  by  the  flames  of  cressets  tremulous, 

Queen  Venus  knelt  and  prayed  to  Proserpine 
That  she  whose  beauty  made  Death  amorous 

Should  beg  a  guerdon  from  her  pallid  Lord, 

And  let  Desire  pass  across  dread  Charon's  icy  ford. 


134  CHARMIDES 


m 

IN  melancholy  moonless  Acheron, 
Far  from  the  goodly  earth  and  joyous  day, 
Where  no  spring  ever  buds,  nor  ripening  sun 

Weighs  down  the  apple-trees,  nor  flowery  May 
Chequers  with  chestnut  blooms  the  grassy  floor. 
Where  thrushes  never  sing,  and  piping  linnets  mate  no 
more, 

There  by  a  dim  and  dark  Lethaean  well 

Young  Charmides  was  lying,  wearily 
He  plucked  the  blossoms  from  the  asphodel, 

And  with  its  little  rifled  treasury 
Strewed  the  dull  waters  of  the  dusky  stream, 
And  watched  the  white  stars  founder,  and  the  land  was 
like  a  dream. 

When  as  he  gazed  into  the  watery  glass 

And  through  his  brown  hair's  curly  tangles  scanned 

His  own  wan  face,  a  shadow  seemed  to  pass 
Across  the  mirror,  and  a  little  hand 

Stole  into  his,  and  warm  lips  timidly 

Brushed  his  pale  cheeks,  and  breathed  their  secret  forth 
into  a  sigh. 


CHARMIDES  135 

Then  turned  he  round  his  weary  eyes  and  saw, 

And  ever  nigher  still  their  faces  came, 
And  nigher  ever  did  their  young  mouths  draw 

Until  they  seemed  one  perfect  rose  of  flame, 
And  longing  arms  around  her  neck  he  cast, 
And  felt  her  tlu'obbing  bosom,  and  his  breath  came  hot 
and  fast, 

And  all  his  hoarded  sweets  were  hers  to  kiss, 
And  all  her  maidenhood  was  his  to  slay. 

And  limb  to  limb  in  long  and  rapturous  bliss 
Their  passion  waxed  and  waned, — O  why  essay 

To  pipe  again  of  love  too  venturous  reed ! 

Enough,  enough  that  Eros  laughed  upon  that  flowerless 
mead. 

Too  venturous  poesy  O  why  essay 

To  pipe  again  of  passion !  fold  thy  wings 

O'er  daring  Icarus  and  bid  thy  lay 

Sleep  hidden  in  the  lyre's  silent  strings, 

Till  thou  hast  found  the  old  Castalian  rill, 

Or  from  the  Lesbian  waters  plucked  drowned  Sappho's 
golden  quill! 

Enough,  enough  that  he  whose  life  had  been 
A  fiery  pulse  of  sin,  a  splendid  shame. 

Could  in  the  loveless  land  of  Hades  glean 

One  scorching  harvest  from  those  fields  of  flame 

Where  passion  walks  with  naked  unshod  feet 

And  is  not  wounded, — ah!  enough  that  once  their  lips 
could  meet 


136  CHARMIDES 

In  that  wild  throb  when  all  existences 

Seemed  narrowed  to  one  single  ecstasy 
Which  dies  through  its  own  sweetness  and  the  stress 

Of  too  much  pleasure,  ere  Persephone 
Had  bade  them  serve  her  by  the  ebon  throne 
Of  the  pale  God  who  in  the  fields  of  Enna  loosed  her 
zone. 


FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 


IMPRESSIONS 

I 

LES    SILHOUETTES 

THE  sea  is  flecked  with  bars  of  grey, 
The  dull  dead  wind  is  out  of  tune, 
And  like  a  withered  leaf  the  moon 
Is  blown  across  the  stonny  bay 

Etched  clear  upon  the  pallid  sand 
Lies  the  black  boat :  a  sailor  boy 
Clambers  aboard  in  careless  joy 
With  laughing  face  and  gleaming  hand. 

And  overhead  the  curlews  cry, 
Where  through  the  dusky  upland  grass 
The  young  bro^^Tl-throated  reapers  pass, 
Like  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 


139 


140  FLOWERS   OF   GOLD 


n 

LA  FUITE  DE  LA  LUNE 

TO  outer  senses  there  is  peace, 
A  dreamy  peace  on  either  hand, 
Deep  silence  in  the  shadowy  land, 
Deep  silence  where  the  shadows  cease. 

Save  for  a  cry  that  echoes  shrill 
From  some  lone  bird  disconsolate; 
A  corncrake  calling  to  its  mate; 
The  answer  from  the  misty  hill. 

And  suddenly  the  moon  withdraws 
Her  sickle  from  the  lightening  skies, 
And  to  her  sombre  cavern  flies, 
Wrapped  in  a  veil  of  yellow  gauze. 


i 


FLOWERS    OF   GOLD  14 


THE    GRAVE    OF    KEATS 

RID  of  the  world's  injustice,  and  his  pain, 
He  rests  at  last  beneath  God's  veil  of  blue: 

Taken   from  life  when  life  and  love  were  new 
The- youngest  of  the  martyrs  here  is  lain, 
Fair  as  Sebastian,  and  as  early  slain. 

No  cypress  shades  his  grave,  no  funeral  yew, 

But  gentle  violets  weeping  with  the  dew 
Weave  on  his  bones  an  ever-blossoming  chain. 
O  proudest  heart  that  broke  for  misery ! 

O  sweetest  lips  since  those  of  Mitylene! 

O  poet-painter  of  our  English  Land! 
Thy  name  was  writ  in  w^ater — it  shall  stand: 

And  tears  like  mine  will  keep  thy  memory  green, 

As  Isabella  did  her  Basil-tree. 

Rome. 


142  FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 


THEOCRITUS 


A    VILLANELLE 


O 


SINGER  of  Persephone ! 

In  the  dim  meadows  desolate  I 

Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 


Still  through  the  ivy  flits  the  bee 
Where  AmarylHs  lies  in  state; 
O  Singer  of  Persephone ! 

Simaetha  calls  on  Hecate 

And  hears  the  wild  dogs  at  the  gate; 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Still  by  the  light  and  laughing  sea 

Poor  Polypheme  bemoans  his  fate: 
O  Singer  of  Persephone! 

And  still  in  boyish  rivalry 

Young  Daphnis  challenges  his  mate: 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Slim  Lacon  keeps  a  goat  for  thee, 

For  thee  the  jocund  shepherds  wait, 
O  Singer  of  Persephone! 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 


FLOWERS    OF    GOLD  143 


IN    THE    GOLD    ROOM 

A    HARMONY 

HER  ivory  hands  on  the  ivory  keys 
Strayed  in  a  fitful  fantasy, 
Like  the  silver  gleam  when  the  poplar-trees 
Rustled  their  pale  leaves  listlessly, 
Or  the  drifting  foam  of  a  restless  sea 
When  the  waves  show  their  teeth  in  the  flying  breeze. 

Her  gold  hair  fell  on  the  wall  of  gold 
Like  the  delicate  gossamer  tangles  spun 

On  the  burnished  disk  of  the  marigold. 
Or  the  sunflower  turning  to  meet  the  sun 
When  the  gloom  of  the  dark  blue  night  is  done. 

And  the  spear  of  the  lily  is  aureoled. 

And  her  sweet  red  lips  on  these  lips  of  mine 
Burned  like  the  ruby  fire  set 

In  the  swinging  lamp  of  a  crimson  shrine, 
Or  the  bleeding  wounds  of  the  pomegranate. 
Or  the  heart  of  the  lotus  drenched  and  wet 

With  the  spilt-out  blood  of  the  rose-red  wine. 


144  FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 


BALLADE    DE    MARGUERITE 

(normande) 

T     AM  weary  of  lying  within  the  chase 

-*■       When  the  knights  are  meeting  in  market-place. 

Nay,  go  not  thou  to  the  red-roofed  town 

Lest  the  hooves  of  the  war-horse  tread  thee  down. 

But  I  would  not  go  where  the  Squires  ride, 
I  would  only  walk  by  my  Lady's  side. 

Alack !  and  alack !  thou  art  overbold, 
A  Forester's  son  may  not  eat  off  gold. 

Will  she  love  me  the  less  that  my  Father  is  seen, 
Each  Martinmas  day  in  a  doublet  green? 

Perchance  she  is  sewing  at  tapestne, 
Spindle  and  loom  are  not  meet  for  thee. 

Ah,  if  slie  is  working  the  aiTas  bright 
I  might  ravel  the  threads  by  the  firelight. 

Perchance  she  is  hunting  of  the  deer, 
How  could  you  follow  o'er  hill  and  mere? 


FLOWERS    OF    GOLD  145 

Ah,  if  she  is  riding  with  the  court, 

I  might  run  beside  her  and  wind  the  morte. 

Perchance  she  is  kneehng  in  St.  Denys, 

(On  her  soul  may  our  Lady  have  gramercy!) 

Ah,  if  she  is  praying  in  lone  chapellc, 

I  might  swing  the  censer  and  ring  the  bell. 

Come  in  my  son,  for  you  look  sae  pale, 
The  father  shall  fill  thee  a  stoup  of  ale. 

But  who  are  these  knights  in  bright  array.'' 
Is  it  a  pageant  the  rich  folks  play.'' 

'Tis  the  King  of  England  from  over  sea, 
Who  has  come  unto  visit  our  fair  countrie. 

But  why  does  the  curfew^  toll  sae  low.^^ 
And  w^hy  do  the  mourners  walk  a-row.'' 

O  'tis  Hugh  of  Amiens  my  sister's  son 
Who  is  lying  stark,  for  his  day  is  done. 

Nay,  nay,   for  I  see  white  lilies  clear. 
It  is  no  strong  man  who  lies  on  the  bier. 

0  'tis  old  Dame  Jeannette  that  kept  the  hall, 

1  knew  she  would  die  at  the  autunm  fall. 


146  FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 

Dame  Jeannette  had  not  that  gold-brown  hair, 
Old  Jeannette  was  not  a  maiden  fair. 

O  'tis  none  of  our  kith  and  none  of  our  kin, 
( Her  soul  may  our  Lady  assoil  from  sin ! ) 

But  I  hear  the  boy's  voice  chaunting  sweet, 
"Elle  est  morte,  la  Marguerite." 

Come  in  my  son  and  lie  on  the  bed, 
And  let  the  dead  folk  bury  their  dead. 

O  mother,  you  know  I  loved  her  true: 
O  mother,  hath  one  grave  room  for  two.? 


FLOWERS    OF    GOLD  147 

THE    DOLE    OF   THE    KING'S    DAUGHTER 

( Breton) 

SEVEN  stars  in  the  still  water, 
And  seven  in  the  sky ; 
Seven  sins  on  tlie  King's  daughter. 
Deep  in  her  soul  to  lie. 

Red  roses  are  at  her  feet, 

(Roses  are  red  in  her  red-gold  hair) 
And  O  where  her  bosom  and  girdle  meet 

Red  roses  are  hidden  there. 

Fair  is  the  knight  who  lieth  slain 

Amid  the  rush  and  reed. 
See  the  lean  fishes  that  are  fain 

Upon   dead  men  to  feed. 

Sweet  is  the  page  that  lieth  there, 
(Cloth  of  gold  is  goodly  prey,) 

See  the  black  ravens  in  the  air, 

Black,  O  black  as  the  night  are  they. 

What  do  they  there  so  stark  and  dead.'' 
(There  is  blood  upon  her  hand) 

Why  are  the  lilies  flecked  with  red? 
(There  is  blood  on  the  river  sand.) 


148  FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 

There  are  two  that  ride  from  the  south  and  east, 

And  two  from  the  north  and  west, 
For  the  black  raven  a  goodly  feast. 

For  the  King's   daughter   rest. 

There  is  one  man  who  loves  her  true, 

(Red,  O  red,  is  the  stain  of  gore!)  M 

He  hath  duggen  a  grave  by  the  darksome  yew,  ^ 

(One  grave  will  do  for  four.) 

No  moon  in  the  still  heaven. 

In  the  black  water  none. 
The  sins  on  her  soul  are  seven, 

The  sin  upon  his  is  one. 


I 


FLOWERS   OF    GOLD  149 


AMOR    INTELLECTUALIS 

OFT  have  we  trod  the  vales  of  Castaly 
And  heard  sweet  notes  of  sylvan  music  blown 

From  antique  reeds  to  common  folk  unknown: 
And  often  launched  our  bark  upon  that  sea 
Which   the   nine  ]\Iuses   hold   in   empery, 

And   ploughed   free   furrows   through  the  wave   and 
foam, 

Nor  spread  reluctant  sail  for  more  safe  home 
Till  we  had   freighted  well  our  argosy. 
Of  which  despoiled  treasures  these  remain, 

Sordello's  passion,  and  the  honied  line 
Of  3'oung  Endymion,  lordly  Tamburlaine 

Driving  his  pampered  jades,  and,  more  than  these. 
The  seven- fold  vision  of  the  Florentine, 

And  grave-browed  Milton's  solemn  harmonies. 


150  FLOWERS   OF   GOLD 


SANTA  DECCA 

rriHE  Gods  are  dead:  no  longer  do  we  bring 
-*■       To  grey-ejed  Pallas  crowns  of  olive-leaves ! 
Demeter's  child  no  mo4*e  hath  tithe  of  sheaves, 

And  in  the  noon  the  careless  shepherds  sing, 

For  Pan  is  dead,  and  all  the  wantoning 
By  secret  glade  and  devious  haunt  is  o'er: 
Young  Hj'las  seeks  the  water-springs  no  more ; 

Great  Pan  is  dead,  and  Mary's  Son  is  King. 

And  yet — perchance  in  this  sea-tranced  isle, 
Chewing  the  bitter  fruit  of  memory. 
Some  God  lies  hidden  in  the  asphodel. 

Ah  Love !  if  such  there  be  then  it  were  well 
For  us  to  fly  his  anger:  nay,  but  see 
The  leaves  are  stirring:  let  us  watch  awhile. 

Corfu. 


FLOWERS    OF    GOLD  15  i 


A  VISION 

TWO  crowned  Kings,  and  One  that  stood  alone 
With  no  green  weight  of  laurels  round  his  head, 

But  with  sad  eyes  as  one  unconiforted. 
And  wearied  with  man's  never-ceasing  moan 
For  sins  no  bleating  victim  can  atone, 

And  sweet  long  lips  with  tears  and  kisses  fed. 

Girt  was  he  in  a  garment  black  and  red, 
And  at  his  feet  I  marked  a  broken  stone 

Which  sent  up  lilies,  dove-like,  to  his  knees. 

Now  at  their  sight,  my  heart  being  lit  with  flame 
I  cried  to  Beatrice,  "Who  are  these.'"' 
And  she  made  answer,  knowing  well  each  name, 

"^schylus  first,  the  second  Sophokles, 

And  last  (wide  stream  of  tears!)  Euripides." 


152  FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 


IMPRESSION    DE    VOYAGE 

rriHE  sea  was  sapphire  coloured,  and  the  sky 
^       Burned  like  a  heated  opal  through  the  air; 
We  hoisted  sail ;  the  wind  was  blowing  fair 

For  the  blue  lands  that  to  the  eastward  lie. 

From  the  steep  prow  I  marked  with  quickening  eye 
Zakynthos,  every  olive  grove  and  creek, 
Ithaca,'s  cliff,  Lycaon's  snowy  peak. 

And  all  the  flower-strewn  hills  of  Arcady. 

The  flapping  of  the  sail  against  the  mast. 
The  ripple  of  the  water  on  the  side. 
The  ripple  of  girls'  laughter  at  the  stern, 

The  only  sounds : — when  'gan  the  West  to  burn. 
And  a  red  sun  upon  the  seas  to  ride, 
I  stood  upon  the  soil  of  Greece  at  last ! 

Katakolo. 


FLOWERS    OF   GOLD  153 


THE    GRAVE    OF    SHELLEY 

LIKE  burnt-out  torclies  by  a  sick  man's  bed 
Gaunt  cypress-trees  stand  round  the  sun-bleached 
stone ; 
Here  doth  the  little  night-owl  make  lier  throne, 
And  the  slight  lizard  sliow  his  jewelled  head. 
And,  where  tlie  cliahced  poppies  flame  to  red, 
In  the  still  chamber  of  yon  pyramid 
Surely  some  Old-World  Sphinx  lurks  darkly  hid, 
Grim  warder  of  this  pleasaunce  of  the  dead. 

Ah !  sweet  indeed  to  rest  within  the  womb 
Of  Earth,  gi-eat  mother  of  eternal  sleep, 

But  sweeter  far  for  thee  a  restless  tomb 
In  the  blue  cavern  of  an  echoing  deep, 

Or  where  the  tall  ships  founder  in  the  gloom 

Against  the  rocks  of  some  wave-shattered  steep. 

Rome. 


154  FLOWERS    OF    GOLD 


BY    THE    ARNO 

THE  oleander  on  the  wall 
Grows  crimson  in  the  dawTiing  light, 
Though  the  grey  shadows  of  the  night 
Lie  yet  on  Florence  like  a  pall. 

The  dew  is  bright  upon  the  hill, 
And  bright  the  blossoms  overhead, 
But  ah,  the  grasshoppers  have  fled. 
The  little  Attic  song  is  still. 

Only  the  leaves  are  gently  stirred 
By  the  soft  breathing  of  the  gale. 
And  in  the  almond-scented  vale 
The  lonely  nightingale  is  heard. 

The  day  will  make  thee  silent  soon, 
O  nightingale  sing  on  for  love ! 
While  yet  upon  the  shadowy  grove 
Splinter  the  arrows  of  the  moon. 

Before  across  the  silent  lawn 
In  sea-green  vest  the  morning  steals, 
And  to  love's  frightened  eyes  reveals 
The  long  white  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Fast  climbing  up  the  eastern  sky 
To  grasp  and  slay  the  shuddering  night, 
All  careless  of  my  heart's  delight. 
Or  if  the  nightingale  should  die. 


IMPRESSIONS   DE    THEATRE 


FABIEN    DEI    FRANCHI 

To  My  Friend  Henry  Irvinq 

THE  silent  room,  the  heav}'  creeping  shade, 
The  dead  that  travel  fast,  the  opening  door, 
The  murdered  brother  rising  through  the  floor, 

The  ghost's  white  fingers  on  my  shoulders  laid, 

And  then  the  lonely  duel  in  the  glade, 

The  broken  swords,  the  stifled  scream,  the  gore. 
Thy  grand  revengeful  eyes  when  all  is  o'er, — 

These  things  are  well  enough, — but  thou  wert  made 
For  more  august  creation !  frenzied  Lear 
Should  at  thy  bidding  wander  on  the  heath 
With  the  shrill  fool  to  mock  him,  Romeo 

For  thee  should  lure  his  love,  and  desperate  fear 

Pluck  Richard's  recreant  dagger  from  its  sheath — 
Thou  trumpet  set  for  Shakespeare's  lips  to  blow ! 


157 


158       IMPRESSIONS    DE    THEATRE 


PHEDRE 


To  Sarah  Bernhardt 

T  T  OW  vain  and  dull  this  common  world  must  seem 

-*-  -^      To  such  a  One  as  thou,  who  should'st  have  talked 
At  Florence  with  Mirandola,  or  walked 

Through  the  cool  olives  of  the  Academe: 

Thou  should'st  have  gathered  reeds  from  a  green  stream 
For  Goat-foot  Pan's  shrill  piping,  and  have  played 
With  the  white  girls  in  that  Phseacian  glade 

Where  grave  Odysseus  wakened  from  his  dream. 

Ah !  surely  once  some  urn  of  Attic  clay 

Held  thy  wan  dust,  and  thou  hast  come  again 
Back  to  this  common  world  so  dull  and  vain, 

For  thou  wert  weary  of  the  sunless  day, 
The  heavy  fields  of  scentless  asphodel, 
The  loveless  lips  with  which  men  kiss  in  Hell. 


IMPRESSIONS    DE    THEATRE        159 


SONNETS    WRITTEN    AT    THE    LYCEUM 
THEATRE 


PORTIA 

To  Ellen   Terry 

T    MARVEL  not  Bassanio  was  so  bold 
-*-        To  peril  all  he  had  upon  the  lead, 

Or  that  proud  Aragon  bent  low  his  head, 
Or  that  Morocco's  fiery  heart  grew  cold : 
For  in  that  gorgeous  dress  of  beaten  gold 

Which  is  more  golden  that  the  golden  sun. 

No  woman  Veronese  looked  upon 
Was  half  so  fair  as  thou  whom  I  behold. 
Yet  fairer  when  with  wisdom  as  3'our  shield 

The  sober-suited  lawyer's  gown  3^ou  donned, 
And  would  not  let  the  laws  of  Venice  yield 

Antonio's  heart  to  that  accursed  Jew — 

O  Portia !  take  my  heart :  it  is  thy  due : 
I  think  I  will  not  quarrel  with  the  Bond. 


160       IMPRESSIONS    DE    THEATRE 


II 
QUEEN    HENRIETTA    MARIA 

To  Ellen  Terry 

T  N  the  lone  tent,  waiting  for  victory, 

•■■      She  stands  with  eyes  marred  by  the  mists  of  pain^ 

Like  some  wan  lily  overdrenched  with  rain : 
The  clamorous  clang  of  arms,  the  ensanguined  sky, 
War's  ruin,  and  the  wreck  of  chivalry. 

To  her  proud  soul  no  common  fear  can  bring: 

Bravely  she  tarrieth  for  her  Lord  the  King, 
Her  soul  a-flame  with  passionate  ecstasy. 
O  Hair  of  Gold !   O  Crimson  Lips !  O  Face 

Made  for  the  luring  and  the  love  of  man ! 

With  thee  I  do  forget  the  toil  and  stress, 
The  loveless  road  that  knows  no  resting-place. 

Time's  straitened  pulse,  the  soul's  dread  weariness, 

My  freedom,  and  my  life  republican! 


IMPRESSIONS    DE    THEATRE        161 


CAMMA 

\  S  one  who  poring  on  a  Grecian  um 

-^^-      Scans  the  fair  shapes  some  Attic  hand  hath  made, 
God  with  slim  goddess,  goodly  man  with  maid, 

And  for  their  beauty's  sake  is  loth  to  turn 

And  face  the  obvious  day,  must  I  not  yearn 
For  many  a  secret  moon  of  indolent  bliss, 
When  in  the  midmost  shrine  of  Artemis 

I  see  thee  standing,  antique-limbed,  and  stem? 

And  yet — methinks  I'd  rather  see  thee  play 
That  serpent  of  old  Nile,  whose  witchery 

]\Iade  Emperors  drunken, — come,  great  Egypt,  shake 
Our  stage  with  all  thy  mimic  pageants !     Nay, 
I  am  grown  sick  of  unreal  passions,  make 

The  world  thine  Actium,  me  tliine  Antony ! 


PANTHEA 


PANTHEA 

NAY,  let  us  walk  from  fire  unto  fire, 
From  p<assionate  pain  to  deadlier  delight, — 
I  am  too  young  to  live  without  desire, 

Too  young  art  thou  to  waste  this  summer  night 
Asking  those  idle  questions  which  of  old 
Man  sought  of  seer  and  oracle,  and  no  reply  was  told. 

For,  sweet,  to  feel  is  better  than  to  know. 

And  wisdom  is  a  childless  heritage, 
One  pulse  of  passion — youth's  first  fiery  glow, — 

Are  worth  the  hoarded  proverbs  of  the  sage: 
Xqx  not  thy  soul  with  dead  philosophy. 
Have  we  not  lips  to  kiss  with,  hearts  to  love,  and  eyes  to 
see! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  the  murmuring  nightingale 

Like  water  bubbling  from  a  silver  jar. 
So  soft  she  sings  the  envious  moon  is  pale, 
That  high  In  heaven  she  is  hung  so  far 
She  cannot  hear  that  love-enraptured  tune, — 
Mark  how  slie  wreathes  each  horn  with  mist,  yon  late  and 
labouring  moon- 

165 


166  PANTHEA 

White  lilies,  in  whose  cups  the  gold  bees  dream, 
The  fallen  snow  of  petals  where  the  breeze 

Scatters  the  chestnut  blossom,  or  the  gleam 
Of  boyish  limbs  in  water, — are  not  these 

Enough  for  thee,  dost  thou  desire  more? 

Alas !  the  Gods  will  give  nought  else  from  their  eternal 
store. 

For  our  high  Gods  have  sick  and  wearied  grown 
Of  all  our  endless  sins,  our  vain  endeavour 

For  wasted  days  of  youth  to  make  atone 

By  pain  or  prayer  or  priest,  and  never,  never. 

Hearken  they  now  to  either  good  or  ill, 

But  send  their  rain  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust  at  will. 

They  sit  at  ease,  our  Gods  they  sit  at  ease. 
Strewing  with  leaves  of  rose  their  scented  wine. 

They  sleep,  they  sleep,  beneath  the  rocking  trees 
Where  asphodel  and  yellow  lotus  twine. 

Mourning  the  old  glad  days  before  they  knew 

What  evil  things  the  heart  of  man  could  dream,  and 
dreaming  do. 

And  far  beneath  the  brazen  floor  they  see 
Like  swarming  flies  the  crowd  of  little  men. 

The  bustle  of  small  lives,  then  wearily 

Back  to  their  lotus-haunts  they  turn  again 

Kissing  each  other's  mouths,  and  mix  more  deep 

The  poppy-seeded  draught   which   brings    soft  purple- 
lidded  sleep. 


PANTHEA  167 

There  all  day  long  the  golden-vestured  sun, 

Their  torch-bearer,  stands  with  his  torch  ablaze, 

And,  when  the  gaudy  web  of  noon  is  spun 

By  its  twelve  maidens,  through  the  crimson  haze 

Fresh  from  Endymion's  amis  comes  forth  the  moon, 

And  the  immortal  Gods  in  toils  of  mortal  passions  swoon. 

There  walks  Queen  Juno  through  some  dewy  mead. 
Her  grand  white  feet  flecked  with  the  saffron  dust 

Of  wind-stirred  lilies,  while  young  Ganymede 
Leaps  in  the  hot  and  amber-foaming  must. 

His  curls  all  tossed,  as  when  the  eagle  bare 

The  frightened  boy  from  Ida  through  the  blue  Ionian  air. 

There  in  the  green  heart  of  some  garden  close 
Queen  Venus  with  the  shepherd  at  her  side. 

Her  warm  soft  body  like  the  brier  rose 

Which  would  be  white  yet  blushes  at  its  pride, 

Lauglis  low  for  love,  till  jealous  Salmacis 

Peers  through  the  myrtle-leaves  and  sighs  for  pain  of 
lonely  bliss. 

There  never  does  that  dreary  north-wind  blow 
Which  leaves  our  English  forests  bleak  and  bare. 

Nor  ever  falls  the  swift  white-feathered  snow. 
Nor  ever  doth  the  red-toothed  lightning  dare 

To  wake  them  in  the  silver- fretted  night 

When  we  lie  weeping  for  some  sweet  sad  sin,  some  dead 
delight. 


168  PANTHEA 

Alas!  they  know  the  far  Lethaean  spring, 
The  violet-hidden  waters  well  they  know, 

Where  one  whose  feet  with  tired  wandering 
Are  faint  and  broken  may  take  heart  and  go, 

And  from  those  dark  depths  cool  and  crystalline 

Drink,  and  draw  balm,  and  sleep  for  sleepless  souls,  and 
anodyne. 

But  we  oppress  our  natures,  God  or  Fate 

Is  our  enemy,  we  starve  and  feed 
On  vain  repentance — O  we  are  born  too  late ! 

What  balm  for  us  in  bruised  poppy  seed 
Who  crowd  into  one  finite  pulse  of  time 
The  joy  of  infinite  love  and  the  fierce  pain  of  infinite 
crime. 

O  we  are  wearied  of  this  sense  of  guilt, 
Wearied  of  pleasure's  paramour  despair, 

Wearied  of  every  temple  we  have  built. 

Wearied  of  every  right,  unanswered  prayer. 

For  man  is  weak ;  God  sleeps :  and  heaven  is  high : 

One  fiery-coloured  moment:  one  great  love;  and  lo !  we 
die. 

Ah !  but  no  ferry-man  with  labouring  pole 

Nears  his  black  shallop  to  the  flowerless  strand, 

No  little  coin  of  bronze  can  bring  the  soul 
Over  Death's  river  to  the  sunless  land, 

Victim  and  wine  and  vow  are  all  in  vain. 

The  tomb  is  sealed ;  the  soldiers  watch ;  the  dead  rise  not 
again. 


PANTHEA  169 

We  are  resolved  into  the  supreme  air, 

We  are  made  one  witli  what  we  touch  and  see, 

With  our  heart's  hlood  each  crimson  sun  is  fair. 

With  our  3'oung  lives  each  spring'-impassioned  tree 

Flames  into  green,  the  wildest  beasts  that  range 

The  moor  our  kinsmen  are,  all    life    is    one,  and  all  is 
change. 

With  beat  of  systole  and  of  diastole 

One  grand  great   life  throbs   through  earth's   giant 
heart, 
And  mighty  waves  of  single  Being  roll 

From  nerveless  germ  to  man,  for  we  are  part 
Of  every  rock  and  bird  and  beast  and  hill. 
One  with  the  things  that  prey  on  us,  and  one  with  what 
we  kill. 

From  lower  cells  of  waking  life  we  pass 

To  full  perfection ;  thus  the  v.orld  grows  old : 

We  who  are  godlike  now  w^re  once  a  mass 

Of  quivering  purple  flecked  wath  bars  of  gold, 

Unsenticnt  or  of  joy  or  misery. 

And  tossed  in  terrible  tangles  of  some  wild  and  wind- 
swept sea. 

This  hot  hard  flame  with  which  our  bodies  bum 
Will  make  some  meadow  blaze  wnth  daffodil. 

Ay!  and  those  argent  breasts  of  thine  will  turn 
To  water-lilies ;  the  brown  fields   men   till 


170  PANTHEA 

Will  be  more  fruitful  for  our  love  to-night, 
Nothing  is  lost  in  nature,  all    things    live    in    Death's 
despite. 

The  boy's  first  kiss,  the  hyacinth's  first  bell, 

The  man's  last  passion,  and  the  last  red  spear 

That  from  the  lily  leaps,  the  asphodel 

Which  will  not  let  its  blossoms  blow  for  fear 

Of  too  much  beauty,  and  the  timid  shame 

Of   the   young  bridegroom   at  his   lover's   eyes, — these 
with  the  same 

One  sacrament  are  consecrate,  the  earth 

Not  we  alone  hath  passions  hymeneal. 
The  yellow  buttercups  that  shake  for  mirth 

At  daybreak  know  a  pleasure  not  less  real 
Than  we  do,  when  in  some  fresh-blossoming  wood. 
We  draw  the  spring  into  our  hearts,  and  feel  that  life  is 
good. 

So  when  men  bury  us  beneath  the  yew 

Thy  crimson-stained  mouth  a  rose  will  be, 

And  thy  soft  eyes  lush  bluebells  dimmed  with  dew, 
And  when  the  white  narcissus  wantonly 

Kisses  the  wind  its  playmate  some  faint  joy 

Will  thrill  our  dust,  and  we  will  be  again  fond  maid  and 
boy. 

And  thus  without  life's  conscious  torturing  pain 
In  some  sweet  flower  we  will  feel  the  sun. 

And  from  the  linnet's  throat  will  sing  again, 
And  as  two  gorgeous-mailed  snakes  will  run 


PANTHEA  171 

Over  our  graves,  or  as  two  tigers  creep 
Through  tlie  hot  jungle  where  the  yellow-eyed  huge  lions 
sleep 

And  give  them  battle !    How  my  heart  leaps  up 
To  think  of  tliat  grand  living  after  death 

In  beast  and  bird  and  flower,  when  this  cup. 
Being  filled  too  full  of  spirit,  bursts  for  breath. 

And  with  the  pale  leaves  of  some  autumn  day 

The  soul  earth's  earliest  conqueror  becomes  earth's  last 
great  prey.  * 

O  think  of  it !  We  shall  inform  ourselves 
Into  all  sensuous  life,  the  goat-foot  Faun, 

The  Centaur,  or  the  merry  bright-eyed  Elves 

That  leave  their  dancing  rings  to  spite  the  dawn 

Upon  the  meadows,  shall  not  be  more  near 

Than  you  and  I  to  nature's  mysteries,  for  we  shall  hear 

The  thrush's  heart  beat,  and  the  daisies  grow. 
And  the  wan  snowdrop  sighing  for  the  sun 

On  sunless  days  in  winter,  we  shall  know 
By  whom  the  silver  gossamer  is  spun. 

Who  paints  the  diapered  fritillaries, 

On  what  wide  wings   from  shivering  pine  to  pine  the 
eagle  flies. 

Ay !  had  we  never  loved  at  all,  who  knows 

If  yonder  daffodil  had  lured  the  bee 
Into  its  gilded  womb,  or  any  rose 

Had  hung  with  crimson  lamps  its  little  tree! 


172  PANTHEA 

Methinks  no  leaf  would  ever  bud  in  spring, 

But  for  the  lovers'  lips  that  kiss,  the  poets'  lips  that  sing. 

Is  the  light  vanished  from  our  golden  sun. 
Or  is  this  deedal-fashioned  earth  less  fair, 

That  we  are  nature's  heritors,  and  one 

With  every  pulse  of  life  that  beats  the  air? 

Rather  new  suns   across  the  sky  shall  pass, 

New  splendour  come  unto  the  flower,  new  glory  to  the 
grass. 

And  we  two  lovers  shall  not  sit  afar. 

Critics  of  nature,  but  the  joyous  sea 
Shall  be  our  raiment,  and  the  bearded  star 

Shoot  arrows  at  our  pleasure !    We  shall  be 
Part  of  the  mighty  universal  whole. 
And  through  all  aeons  mix  and  mingle  with  the  Kosmic 
Soul! 

We  shall  be  notes  in  that  great  Symphony 

Whose  cadence  circles  through  the  rhythmic  spheres. 

And  all  the  live  World's  throbbing  heart  shall  be 
One  with  our  heart,  the  stealthy  creeping  years 

Have  lost  their  terrors  now,  we  shall  not  die. 

The  Universe  itself  shall  be  our  Immortality ! 


THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT 


IMPRESSION 
LE    REVEILLON 

THE  sky  is  laced  with  fitful  red, 
The  circling  mists  and  shadows  flee, 
The  dawn  is  rising  from  the  sea. 
Like  a  white  lady  from  her  bed. 

And  jagged  brazen  arrows  fall 
Atliwart  the  feathers  of  the  night, 
And  a  long  wave  of  yellow  light 
Breaks  silently  on  tower  and  hall, 

And  spreading  wide  across  the  wold 
Wakes  into  flight  some  fluttering  bird, 
And  all  the  chestnut  tops  are  stirred, 
And  all  the  branches  streaked  with  gold. 


175 


176        THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT 


AT  VERONA 

T  TOW  steep  the  stairs  within  Kings'  houses  are 
-*■  -■■      For  exile-wearied  feet  as  mine  to  tread, 

And  O  how  salt  and  bitter  is  the  bread 
Which  falls  from  this  Hound's  table, — better  far 
That  I  had  died  in  the  red  wa^^s  of  war, 

Or  that  the  gate  of  Florence  bare  my  head, 
Than  to  live  thus,  by  all  things  comraded 
Which  seek  the  essence  of  my  soul  to  mar. 

"Curse  God  and  die:  what  better  hope  than  this? 
He  hath  forgotten  thee  in  a^!  the  bliss 
Of  his  gold  city,  and  eternal  day" — 

Nay  peace:  behind  my  prison's  blinded  bars 
I  do  possess  what  none  can  take  away. 

My  love,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  stars. 


THE    FOURTH    iMOVEMENT        177 


APOLOGIA 

T  S  it  thy  will  that  I  should  wax  and  wane, 
■*■      Barter  my  cloth  of  gold  for  hodden  grey, 
And  at  th^^  pleasure  weave  that  web  of  pain 

Whose  brightest  threads  are  each  a  wasted  day? 

Is  it  thy  will — Love  that  I  love  so  well — 

That  my  Soul's  House  should  be  a  tortured  spot 

Wherein,  like  evil  paramours,  must  dwell 

The  quenchless  flame,  the  worm  that  dieth  not? 

Nay,  if  it  be  thy  will  I  shall  endure. 
And  sell  ambition  at  the  common  mart. 

And  let  dull  failure  be  my  vestiture. 

And  sorrow  dig  its  grave  within  my  heart. 

Perchance  it  may  be  better  so — at  least 
I  have  not  made  my  heart  a  heart  of  stone. 

Nor  starved  my  boyhood  of  its  goodly  feast. 
Nor  walked  where  Beauty  is  a  thing  unknown. 

Many  a  man  hath  done  so;  sought  to  fence 
In  straitened  bonds  the  soul  that  should  be  free. 

Trodden  the  dusty  road  of  common  sense. 
While  all  the  forest  sang  of  liberty, 


178        THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT 

Not  marking  how  the  spotted  hawk  in  flight 
Passed  on  w^de  pinion  through  the  lofty  air, 

To  where  some  steep  untrodden  mountain  height 
Caught  the  last  tresses  of  the  Sun  God's  hair. 

Or  how  the  little  flower  he  trod  upon, 

The  daisy,  that  white-feathered  shield  of  gold. 

Followed  with  wistful  eyes  the  wandering  sun 
Content  if  once  its  leaves  were  aureoled. 

But  surely  it  is  something  to  have  been 

The  best  beloved  for  a  little  wliile. 
To  have  walked  hand  in  hand  with  Love,  and  seen 

His  purple  wings  flit  once  across  thy  smile. 

Ay!  though  the  gorged  asp  of  passion  feed 
On  my  boy's  heart,  yet  have  I  burst  the  bars. 

Stood  face  to  face  with  Beauty,  known  indeed 

The  Love  which  moves  the  Sun  and  all  the  stars ! 


THE    FOURTH    MOVExMENT        179 


QUIA  MULTUM  AMAVI 

"PA  EAR  Heart  I  think  the  young  impassioned  priest 
-*— '      When  first  he  takes  from  out  the  hidden  shrine 
His  God  imprisoned  in  the  Eucharist, 

And  eats  the  bread,  and  drinks  the  dreadful  wine, 

Feels  not  such  awful  wonder  as  I  felt 

When  first  my  smitten  eyes  beat  full  on  thee, 

And  all  night  long  before  thy  feet  I  knelt 
Till  thou  wert  wearied  of  Idolatry. 

Ah!  had'st  thou  liked  me  less  and  loved  me  more. 
Through  all  those  summer  days  of  joy  and  rain, 

I  had  not  now  been  sorrow's  heritor. 

Or  stood  a  lackey  in  the  House  of  Pain. 

Yet,  though  remorse,  youth's  white- faced  seneschal, 

Tread  on  my  heels  with  all  his  retinue, 
I  am  most  glad  I  loved  tlice — think  of  all 

The  suns  that  go  to  make  one  speedwell  blue ! 


180        THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT 


SILENTIUM    AMORIS 

AS  oftentimes  the  too  resplendent  sun 
Hurries  the  pallid  and  reluctant  moon 
Back  to  her  sombre  cave,  ere  she  hath  won 
A  single  ballad  from  the  nightingale, 
So  doth  thy  Beauty  make  my  lips  to  fail, 
And  all  my  sweetest  singing  out  of  tune. 

And  as  at  dawn  across  the  level  mead 

On  wings  impetuous  some  wind  will  come, 

And  with  its  too  harsh  kisses  break  the  reed 
Which  was  its  only  instrument  of  song, 
So  my  too  stormy  passions  work  me  wrong. 

And  for  excess  of  Love  my  Love  is  dumb. 

But  surely  unto  Thee  mine  eyes  did  show 
Why  I  am  silent,  and  my  lute  unstrung; 

Else  it  were  better  we  should  part,  and  go, 
Thou  to  some  lips  of  sweeter  melody, 
And  I  to  nurse  the  barren  memory 

Of  unkissed  kisses,  and  songs  never  sung. 


THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT        18 


HER   VOICE 

fin  HE  wild  bee  reels  from  bough  to  bough 
^       With  his  furry  coat  and  his  gauzy  wing, 
Now  in  a  lily-cup,  and  now 
Setting  a  jacinth  bell  a-swing, 
In  his  wandering; 
Sit  closer  love:  it  was  here  I  trow 
I  made  that  vow, 

Swore  that  two  lives  should  be  like  one 
As  long  as  the  sea-gull  loved  the  sea. 
As  long  as  the  sunflower  sought  the  sun, — 
It  shall  be,  I  said,  for  eternity 
'Twixt  you  and  me  ! 
Dear  friend,  those  times  are  over  and  done. 
Love's  web  is  spun. 

Look  upward  where  the  poplar-trees 
Sway  and  sway  in  the  summer  air, 
Here  in  the  valley  never  a  breeze 
Scatters  the  thistledown,  but  there 
Great  winds  blow  fair 
From  the  mighty  nmniiuring  mystical  seas, 
And  the  wave-lashed  leas. 


182        THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT 

Look  upward  where  the  white  gull  screams, 

What  does  it  see  that  we  do  not  see? 
Is  that  a  star?  or  the  lamp  that  gleams 
On  some  outward  voyaging  argosy, — 
Ah!  can  it  be 
We  have  lived  our  lives  in  a  land  of  dreams ! 
How  sad  it  seems. 

Sweet,  there  is  nothing  left  to  say 

But  this,  that  love  is  never  lost. 
Keen  winter  stabs  the  breasts  of  May 
Whose  crimson  roses  burst  his  frost, 
Ships  tempest-tossed 
Will  find  a  harbour  in  some  bay, 
And  so  we  may. 

And  there  is  nothing  left  to  do 

But  to  kiss  once  again,  and  part, 
Nay,  there  is  nothing  we  should  rue, 
I  have  my  beauty, — you  your  Art, 
Na}^,  do  not  start, 
One  world  was  not  enough  for  two 
Like  me  and  you. 


THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT        183 


MY  VOICE 

WITHIN  this  restless,  hun-ied,  modem  world 
We  took  our  hearts'  full  pleasure — You  and  I, 
And  now  the  white  sails  of  our  ship  are  furled, 
And  spent  the  lading  of  our  argosy. 

Wherefore  my  cheeks  before  their  time  are  wan, 

For  very  weeping  is  my  gladness  fled, 
SoiTow  has  paled  my  young  mouth's  vemiilion, 

And  Ruin  draws  the  curtains  of  my  bed. 

But  all  this  crowded  life  has  been  to  thee 
No  more  than  lyre,  or  lute,  or  subtle  spell 

Of  viols,  or  the  music  of  the  sea 

That  sleeps,  a  mimic  echo,  in  the  shell. 


184        THE    FOURTH    MOVEMENT 


TEDIUM    VIT^ 

rW^  O  stab  my  youth  with  desperate  knives,  to  wear 
V.  -  A        This  paltry  age's  gaudy  livery,  ''^::!^^ 

To  let  each  base  hand  filch  my  treasury. 
To  mesh  my  soul  within  a  woman's  hair. 
And  be  mere  Fortune's  lackeyed  groom, — I  swear 
I  love  it  not !  these  things  are  less  to  me 
Than  the  thin  foam  that  frets  upon  the  sea, 
Less  than  the  thistle-down  or  summer  air 
Which  hath  no  seed :  better  to  stand  aloof 
Far  from  these  slanderous  fools  who  mock  my  life 
Knowing  me  not,  better  the  lowHest  roof 
Fit  for  the  meanest  hind  to  sojourn  in, 
Than  to  go  back  to  that  hoarse  cave  of  strife 
Where  my  white  soul  first  kissed  the  mouth  of  sin. 


HUMANITAD 


HUMANITAD 

T  T  Is  full  Winter  now :  the  trees  are  bare, 
-*■      Save  where  the  cattle  huddle  from  the  cold 
Beneath  the  pine,  for  it  doth  never  wear 

The  Autumn's   gaudy   livery  whose  gold 
Her  jealous  brother  pilfers,  but  is  true 
To  the  green  doublet;  bitter  is  the  wind,  as  though  it 
blew 

From  Saturn's  cave ;  a  few  thin  wisps  of  hay 
Lie  on  the  sharp  black  hedges,  where  the  wain 

Dragged  the  sweet  pillage  of  a  summer's  day 
From  the  low  meadows  up  the  narrow  lane ; 

Upon  the  half-thawed  snow  the  bleating  sheep 

Press  close  against  the  hurdles,  and  the  shivering  house- 
dogs creep 

From  the  shut  stable  to  the  frozen  stream 

And  back  again  disconsolate,  and  miss 
The  bawling  shepherds  and  the  noisy  team; 

And  overhead  in  circling  listlessness 
The  cawing  rooks  whirl  round  the  frosted  stack, 
Or  crowd  the  dripping  boughs ;  and  in  the  fen  the  ice- 
pools  crack 

187 


188  HUMANITAD 

Where  the  gaunt  bittern  stalks  among  the  reeds 
And  flaps  his  wings,  and  stretches  back  his  neck, 

And  hoots  to  see  the  moon ;  across  the  meads 
Limps  the  poor  frightened  hare,  a  httle  speck ; 

And  a  stray  seamew  with  its  fretful  cry 

Flits  like  a  sudden  drift  of  snow  against  the  dull  grey 
sky. 

Full  winter :  and  the  lusty  goodman  brings 
His  load  of  faggots  from  the  chilly  byre. 

And  stamps  his  feet  upon  the  hearth,  and  flings 
The  sappy  billets  on  the  waning  fire, 

And  laughs  to  see  the  sudden  lightening  scare 

His  children  at  their  play  ;  and  yet, — the  Spring  is  in  the 
air, 

Already  the  slim  crocus  stirs  the  snow. 

And  soon  yon  blanched  fields  will  bloom  again 

With  nodding  cowslips  for  some  lad  to  mow. 
For  with  the  first  wann  kisses  of  the  rain 

The  winter's  icy  sorrow  breaks  to  tears. 

And  the  brown  thrushes  mate,  and  with  bright  eyes  the 
rabbit  peers 

From  the  dark  warren  where  the  fir-cones  lie. 
And  treads  one  snowdrop  under  foot,  and  runs 

Over  the  mossy  knoll,  and  blackbirds  fly 
Across  our  path  at  evening,  and  the  suns 

Stay  longer  with  us ;  ah !  how  good  to  see 

Grass-girdled  Spring  in  all  her  joy  of  laughing  greenery 


HUMANITAD  189 

Dance  through  the  hedges  till  the  early  rose, 
(That  sweet  repentance  of  the  thorny  brier!) 

Burst  from  its  sheathed  emerald  and  disclose 
The  little  quivering  disk  of  golden  fire 

Which  the  bees  know  so  well,  for  with  it  come 

Pale  boy's-love,    sops-in-wine,    and    daff'adillies    all  in 
bloom. 

Then  up  and  down  the  field  the  sower  goes. 

While  close  behind  the  laughing  younker  scares 

With  shrilly  whoop  the  black  and  thievish  crows, 
And  then  the  chest  nut-tree  its  glory  wears, 

And  on  the  grass  the  creamy  blossom  falls 

In  odorous  excess,  and  faint  half-whispered  madrigals 

Steal  from  the  bluebells'  nodding  carillons 
Each  breezy  morn,  and  then  white  jessamine, 

That  star  of  its  own  heaven,  snapdragons 

With  lolling  crimson  tongues,  and  eglantine 

In  dusty  velvets  clad  usurp  the  bed 

And  woodland  empery,  and  when  the  lingering  rose  hath 
shed 

Red  leaf  by  leaf  its  folded  panoply, 

And  pansies  closed  their  purple-lidded  eyes, 

Chrysanthemums  from  gilded  argosy 

Unload  their  gaudy  scentless  merchandise, 

And  violets  getting  overbold  withdraw 

From  their  shy  nooks,  and  scarlet  berries  dot  the  leafless 
haw. 


190  HUMANITAD 

O  happy  field !  and  O  thrice  happy  tree ! 

Soon  will  your  queen  in  daisy-flowered  smock 
And  crown  of  flower-de-luce  trip  down  the  lea, 

Soon  will  the  lazy  shepherds  drive  their  flock 
Back  to  the  pasture  by  the  pool,  and  soon 
Through  the  green  leaves  will  float  the  hum  of  murmur- 
ing bees  at  noon. 

Soon  will  the  glade  be  bright  with  bellamour. 

The  flower  which  wantons  love,  and  those  sweet  nuns 

Vale-lilies  in  their  snowy  vestiture 

Will  tell  their  beaded  pearls,  and  carnations 

With  mitred  dusky  leaves  will  scent  the  wind. 

And  straggling  traveller's  joy  each  hedge  with  yellow 
stars  will  bind. 

Dear  Bride  of  Nature  and  most  bounteous  Spring ! 

That  can'st  give  increase  to  the  sweet-breath'd  kine, 
And  to  the  kid  its  little  horns,  and  bring 

The  soft  and  silky  blossoms  to  the  vine. 
Where  is  that  old  nepenthe  which  of  yore 
Man  got  from  poppy  root  and  glossy-berried  mandra- 
gore! 

There  was  a  time  when  any  common  bird 

Could  make  me  sing  in  unison,  a  time 
When  all  the  strings  of  boyish  life  were  stirred 

To  quick  response  or  more  melodious  rhyme 
By  every  forest  idyll; — do  I  change? 
Or  rather  doth  some  evil  thing  through  thy  fair  pleas- 
aunce  range.'' 


I 


HUMANITAD  191 

Nay,  nay,  thou  art  the  same:  'tis  I  who  seek 

To  vex  with  sighs  thy  simple  solitude, 
And  because  fruitless  tears  bedew  my  cheek 

Would  have  thee  weep  with  me  in  brotherhood; 
Fool!  sliall  each  wronged  and  restless  spirit  dare 
To  taint  such  wine  with    the    salt    poison  of  his  own 
despair ! 

Thou  art  the  same :  'tis  I  whose  wretched  soul 

Takes  discontent  to  be  its  paramour, 
And  gives  its  kingdom  to  the  rude  control 

Of  what  should  be  its  servitor, — for  sure 
Wisdom  is  somewhere,  though  the  stormy  sea 
Contain  it  not,  and  the  huge  deep  answer  "  'Tis  not  in 


To  burn  with  one  clear  flame,  to  stand  erect 
In  natural  honour,  not  to  bend  the  knee 

In  profitless  prostrations  whose  effect 
Is  by  itself  condemned,  what  alchemy 

Can  teach  me  this?  what  herb  Medea  brewed 

Will  bring  the  unexultant  peace  of  essence  not  subdued  ? 

The  minor  chord  which  ends  the  harmony. 
And  for  its  answering  brother  waits  in  vain 

Sobbing  for  incompleted  melody. 

Dies  a  Swan's  death ;  but  I  the  heir  of  pain, 

A  silent  Memnon  with  blank  lidless  eyes. 

Wait  for  the  light  and  music  of  those  suns  which  never 
rise. 


192  HUMANITAD 

The  quenched-out  torch,  the  lonely  cypress-gloom, 
The  little  dust  stored  in  the  narrow  um, 

The  gentle  XAIPE  of  the  Attic  tomb, — 
Were  not  these  better  far  than  to  return 

To  my  old  fitful  restless  malady, 

Or  spend  my  days  within  the  voiceless  cave  of  misery? 

Nay !  for  perchance  that  poppy-crowned  God 

Is  like  the  watcher  by  a  sick  man's  bed 
Who  talks  of  sleep  but  gives  it  not ;  his  rod 

Hath  lost  its  virtue,  and,  when  all  is  said. 
Death  is  too  rude,  too  obvious  a  key 
To  solve  one  single  secret  in  a  life's  philosophy. 

And  Love !  that  noble  madness,  whose  august 

And  inextinguishable  might  can  slay 
The  soul  with  honeyed  drugs, — alas  !  I  must 

From  such  sweet  ruin  play  the  runaway, 
Although  too  constant  memory  never  can 
Forget  the  arched  splendour  of  those  brows  Olympian 

Which  for  a  little  season  made  my  youth 

So  soft  a  swoon  of  exquisite  indolence 
That  all  the  chiding  of  more  prudent  Truth 

Seemed  the  thin  voice  of  jealousy, — O  Hence 
Thou  huntress  deadlier  than  Artemis ! 
Go  seek  some  other  quarry !  for  of  thy  too  perilous  bliss 

My  lips  have  drunk  enough, — no  more,  no  more, — 
Though  Love  himself  should  turn  his  gilded  prow 


HUMANITAD  193 

Back  to  the  troubled  waters  of  this  shore 

Where  I  am  wrecked  and  stranded,  even  now 
The  chariot  wheels  of  passion  sweep  too  near, 
Hence !  Hence !  I  pass  unto    a    life    more    barren,  more 
austere. 

More  barren — ay,   those  arms  will  never  lean 

Down  through  the  trellised  vines  and  draw  my  soul 

In  sweet  reluctance  through  the  tangled  green ; 
Some  other  head  must  wear  that  aureole, 

For  I  am  Hers  who  loves  not  any  man 

Whose    white    and     stainless     bosom    bears    the     sign 
Gorgonian. 

Let  Venus  go  and  chuck  her  dainty  page, 
And  kiss  his  mouth,  and  toss  his  curly  hair. 

With  net  and  spear  and  hunting  equipage 
Let  3'oung  Adonis  to  his  tr3'st  repair. 

But  me  her  fond  and  subtle-fashioned  spell 

Delights  no  more,  though  I  could  win  her  dearest  citadel. 

Ay,  though  I  were  that  laughing  shepherd  boy 
Who  from  Mount  Ida  saw  tlie  little  cloud 

Pass  over  Tenedos  and  lofty  Troy 

And  knew  the  coming  of  the  Queen,  and  bowed 

In  wonder  at  her  feet,  not  for  the  sake 

Of  a  new  Helen  would  I  bid  her  hand  the  apple  take. 

Then  rise  supreme  Athena  argent-limbed! 
And,  if  my  lips  be  nmsicless,  inspire 


194  HUMANITAD 

At  least  my  life:  was  not  thy  glory  hymned 

By  One  who  gave  to  thee  his  sword  and  lyre 
Like  yEschylus  at  well-fought  Marathon, 
And  died  to  show  that  Milton's  England  still  could  bear 
a  son! 

And  yet  I  cannot  tread  the  Portico 

And  live  without  desire,  fear,  and  pain, 
Or  nurture  that  wise  calm  which  long  ago 

The  grave  Athenian  master  taught  to  men. 
Self-poised,  self-centred,  and  self-comforted. 
To  watch  the  world's    vain    phantasies    go  by  with  un- 
bowed head. 

Alas !  that  serene  brow,  those  eloquent  lips, 

Those  eyes  that  mirrored  all  eternity, 
Rest  in  their  own  Colonos,  an  eclipse 

Hath  come  on  Wisdom,  and  Mnemosyne 
Is  childless ;  in  the  night  which  she  had  made 
For  lofty  secure  flight  Athena's  owl  itself  hath  strayed. 

Nor  much  with  Science  do  I  care  to  climb, 
Although  by  strange  and  subtle  witchery 

She  draw  the  moon  from  heaven :  the  Muse  of  Time 
Unrolls  her  gorgeous-coloured  tapestry 

To  no  less  eager  eyes ;  often  indeed 

In  the  great  epic  of  Polymnia's  scroll  I  love  to  read 

How  Asia  sent  her  myriad  hosts  to  war 
Against  a  little  town,  and  panoplied 


HUMANITAD  19S 

In  pjiklcd  mail  witli  jewelled  scimitar, 

Wliitc-sliieldcd,  purple-crested,  rode  the  Mcde 
Between  the  waving  poplars  and  the  sea 
Which  men  call  Arteniisium,  till  he  saw  Thermopylae 

Its  steep  ravine  spanned  by  a  narrow  wall. 

And  on  the  nearer  side  a  little  brood 
Of  careless  lions  holding  festival ! 

And  stood  amazed  at  such  hardihood, 
And  pitched  his  tent  upon  the  reedy  shore, 
And  stayed  two  days  to  wonder   and  then  crept  at  mid- 
night o'er 

Some  unfrequented  height,  and  coming  down 

The  autumn  forests  treacherously  slew 
What  Sparta  held  most  dear  and  was  the  crown 

Of  far  Eurotas,  and  passed  on,  nor  knew 
How  God  had  staked  an  evil  net  for  him 
In  the  small  bay  at  Salamis, — and  yet,  the  page  grows 
dim. 

Its  cadenced  Greek  delights  me  not,  I  feel 
With  such  a  goodly  time  too  out  of  tune 

To  love  it  much:  for  like  the  Dial's  wheel 

That  from  its  blinded  darkness  strikes  the  noon 

Yet  never  sees  the  sun,  so  do  my  eyes 

Restlessly  follow  that  which  from  my  cheated  vision  flics. 

O  for  one  grand  unselfish  simple  life 

To  teach  us  what  is  Wisdom !  speak  ye  hills 


196  HUMANITAD 

Of  lone  Helvelljn,  for  tliis  note  of  strife 

Shunned  your  untroubled  crags  and  crystal  rills, 
Where  is  that  Spirit  wliicli  living  blamelessly 
Yet  dared  to  kiss  the  smitten  mouth  of  his  oAvn  century 

Speak  ye  Rydalian  laurels !  where  is  He 

Whose  gentle  head  ye  sheltered,  tliat  pure  soul 

Whose  gracious  days  of  uncrowned  majesty 

Through  lowliest  conduct  touched  the  lofty  goal 

Where  Love  and  Duty  mingle !  Him  at  least 

The  most  high  Laws  were  glad  of.  He  had  sat  at  Wis- 
dom's feast, 

But  we  are  Learning's  changelings,  know  by  rote 
The  clarion  watchword  of  each  Grecian  school 

And  follow  none,  the  flawless  sv/ord  which  smote 
The  pagan  Hydra  is  an  effete  tool 

Which  we  ourselves  have  blunted,  wliat  man  now 

Shall  scale  the  august  ancient  heights  and  to  old  Rever- 
ence bow? 

One  such  indeed  I  saw,  but,  Ichabod! 

Gone  is  that  last  dear  son  of  Italy, 
Who  being  man  died  for  the  sake  of  God, 

And  whose  unrisen  bones  sleep  peacefully, 
O  guard  him,  guard  him  vvell,  my  Giotto's  tower, 
Thou  marble  lily  of  the  lily  town !  let  not  the  lour 

Of  the  rude  tempest  vex  his  slumber,  or 
The  Arno  with  its  tawny  troubled  gold 


HUMANITAD  197 

O'crlcap  Its  marge,  no  mightier  conqueror 

Clonib  the  higli  Ca])it()l  in  the  days  of  old 
When  Rome  was  indeed  Rome,  for  Liberty 
Walked    like    a    Bride    beside  him,  at  which  sight  pale 
Mystery 

Fled  shrieking  to  her  farthest  sombrest  cell 
With  an  old  man  who  grabbled  rusty  keys, 

Fled  shuddering  for  that  immemorial  knell 
With  which  oblivion  buries  dynasties 

Swept  like  a  wounded  eagle  on  the  blast, 

As  to  the  holy  heart  of  Rome  the  great  triumvir  passed. 

He  knew  the  holiest  heart  and  heights  of  Rome, 
He  drave  the  base  wolf  from  the  lion's  lair, 

And  now  lies  dead  by  that  empyreal  dome 
Which  overtops  Valdarno  hung  in  air 

By  Brunelleschi — O  Melpomene 

Breathe  through  thv  melancholy  pipe  thy  sweetest 
threnody ! 

Breathe  through  the  tragic  stops  such  melodies 
That  Joy's  self  may  grow  jealous,  and  the  Nine 

Forget  awhile  their  discreet  emperics, 

Mourning  for  him  who  on  Rome's  lordliest  shrine 

TJt  for  men's  lives  the  light  of  Marathon, 

And  bare  to  sun-forffotten  fields  the  fire  of  the  sun ! 


t5' 


O  guard  him,  guard  him  well,  my  Giotto's  tower, 
Let  some  young  Florentine  each  eventide 


198  HUMANITAD 

Bring  coronals  of  that  enchanted  flower 

Which  the  dim  woods  of  Vallombrosa  hide, 
And  deck  the  marble  tomb  wherein  he  Hes 
Whose  soul  is  as  some  mighty  orb  unseen  of  mortal  eyes. 

Some  mighty  orb  whose  cycled  wanderings, 
Being  tempest-driven  to  the  farthest  rim 

Where  Chaos  meets  Creation  and  the  wings 
Of  the  eternal  chanting  Cherubim 

Are  pavilioned  on  Nothing,  passed  away 

Into  a  moonless  void, — ^and  jet,  though  he  is  dust  and 
clay, 

He  is  not  dead,  the  immemorial  Fates 
Forbid  it,  and  the  closing  shears  refrain, 

Lift  up  your  heads  ye  everlasting  gates ! 
Ye  argent  clarions  sound  a  loftier  strain  1 

For  the  vile  thing  he  hated  lurks  within 

Its  sombre  house,  alone  with  God  and  memories  of  sin. 

Still  what  avails  it  that  she  sought  her  cave 
That  murderous  mother  of  red  harlotries? 

At  Munich  on  the  marble  architrave 

The  Grecian  boys  die  smiling,  but  the  seas 

Which  wash  iEgina  fret  in  loneliness 

Not  mirroring  their  beauty,  so  our  lives  grow  colourless 

For  lack  of  our  ideals,  if  one  star 

Flame  torch-like  in  the  heavens  the  unjust 

Swift  daylight  kills  it,  and  no  trump  of  war 
Can  wake  to  passionate  voice  the  silent  dust 


HUMANITAD  199 

Which  was  Mazzini  once !  rich  N  iobc 

For  all  her  stony  sorrows  hath  her  sons,  but  Italy ! 

What  Easter  Day  shall  make  her  children  rise, 
Who  were  not  Gods  yet  suffered?  what  sure  feet 

Shall  find  their  graveclothes  folded?  what  clear  eyes 
Shall  see  them  bodily?     O  it  were  meet 

To  roll  the  stone  from  off  the  sepulchre 

And  kiss  the  bleeding  roses  of  their  wounds,  in  love  of 
Her 

Our  Italy  !  our  mother  visible  ! 

Most  blessed  among  nations  and  most  sad. 
For  whose  dear  sake  the  young  Calabrian  fell 

That  day  at  Aspromonte  and  was  glad 
That  in  an  age  when  God  was  bought  and  sold 
One  man  could  die  for  Liberty  !  but  we,  burnt  out  and 
cold. 

See  Honour  smitten  on  the  cheek  and  gyves 

Bind  the  sweet  feet  of  Mercy :  Poverty 
Creeps  through  our  sunless  lanes  and  with  sharp  knives 

Cuts  the  warm  throats  of  children  stealthily, 
And  no  word  said : — O  we  are  wretched  men 
Unworthy  of  our  great  inheritance !  where  is  the  pen 

Of  austere  Milton?  where  the  mighty  sword 
Which  slew  its  master  righteously  ?  the  years 

Have  lost  their  ancient  leader,  and  no  word 
Breaks  from  the  voiceless  tripod  on  our  ears: 


200  HUMANITAD 

While  as  a  ruined  motlier  in  some  spasm 

Bears  a  base  child  and  loathes  it,  so  our  best  enthusiasm 

Genders  unlawful  children,  Anarchy 

Freedom's  own  Judas,  the  vile  prodigal 

License  who  steals  the  gold  of  Liberty 
And  yet  has  nothing.  Ignorance  the  real 

One  Fratricide  since  Cain,  Envy  the  asp 

That   stings   itself   to   anguish,   Avarice   whose  palsied 
grasp 

Is  in  its  extent  stiffened,  moneyed  Greed 
For  whose  dull  appetite  men  waste  away 

Amid  the  whirr  of  wheels  and  are  the  seed 

Of  things  which  slay  their  sower,  these  each  day 

Sees  rife  in  England,  and  the  gentle  feet 

Of  Beauty  tread  no  more  the  stones  of  each  unlovely 
street. 

What  even  Cromwell  spared  is  desecrated 
By  weed  and  wonm,  left  to  the  stormy  play 

Of  wind  and  beating  snow,  or  renovated 

By  more  destructful  hands :  Time's  worst  decay 

Will  wreathe  its  ruins  wath  some  loveliness. 

But  these  new  Vandals  can  but  make  a  rainproof  barren- 
ness. 

Where  is  that  Art  which  bade  the  Angels  sing 
Through  Lincoln's  lofty  choir,  till  the  air 

Seems  from  such  marble  harmonies  to  ring 

With  sweeter  song  than  common  lips  can  dare 


HUMANITAD  201 

To  draw  from  cictual  reed?  all!  Avhcre  is  now 
The  cunning  hand  which  made  the  flowering  hawthorn 
branches  bow 

For  Southwell's  arch,  and  carved  the  House  of  One 

Who  loved  the  lilies  of  the  field  with  all 
Our  dearest  English  flowers?  the  same  sun 

Rises  for  us :  the  seasons  natural 
Weave  the  same  tapestry  of  green  and  grey: 
The  unchanged  hills  are  with  us :  but  that  Spirit  hath 
passed  away. 

And  yet  perchance  it  may  be  better  so, 

For  Tyranny'  is  an  incestuous  Queen, 
Murder  her  brother  is  her  bedfellow, 

And  the  Plague  chambers  w  ith  her :  in  obscene 
And  bloody  paths  her  treacherous  feet  are  set; 
Better  the  empty  desert  and  a  soul  inviolate ! 

For  gentle  brotherhood,  the  harmony 

Of  living  in  the  healthful  air,  the  swift 
Clean  beauty  of  strong  limbs  when  men  are  free 

And  women  chaste,  these  are  the  things  which  lift 
Our  souls  up  more  than  even  Agnolo's 
Gaunt  blinded  Sibyl  poring  o'er  the  scroll  of  human  woes, 

Or  Titian's   little  maiden  on  the  stair 
White  as  her  own  sweet  lily,  and  as  tall 

Or  IVIona  Lisa  smiling  through  her  liair, — 
Ah!  somehow  life  is  bigger  after  all 


202  HUMANITAD 

Than  any  painted  Angel  could  we  see 

The  God  that  is  within  us !     The  old  Greek  serenity 

Which  curbs  the  passion  of  that  level  line 

Of  marble  youths,  who  with  untroubled  e3^es 

And  chastened  limbs  ride  round  Athena's  shrine 
And  mirror  her  divine  economies, 

And  balanced  symmetry  of  what  in  man 

Would  else  wage  ceaseless  warfare, — this  at  least  within 
the  span 

Between  our  mother's  kisses  and  the  grave 
Might  so  inform  our  lives,  that  we  could  win 

Such  mighty  empires  that  from  her  cave 

Temptation  would  grow  hoarse,  and  pallid  Sin 

Would  walk  ashamed  of  his  adulteries. 

And  Passion  creep  from  out  the  House  of  Lust  with 
startled  eyes. 

To  make  the  Body  and  the  Spirit  one 

With  all  right  things,  till  no  thing  live  in  vain 

From  morn  to  noon,  but  in  sweet  unison 

With  every  pulse  of  flesh  and  throb  of  brain 

The  Soul  in  flawless  essence  high  enthroned, 

Against  all  outer  vain  attack  invincibly  bastioned, 

Mark  with  serene  impartiality 

The  strife  of  things,  and  yet  be  comforted, 
Knowing  that  by  the  chain  causality 

All  separate  existences  are  wed 
Into  one  supreme  whole,  whose  utterance 
Is  joy,  or  holier  praise!  ah!  surely  this  were  governance 


HUMANITAD  203 

Of  Life  in  most  august  omnipresence, 

Through  which  the  rational  intellect  would  find 

In  passion  its  expression,  and  mere  sense, 
Ignoble  else,  lend  fire  to  the  mind. 

And  being  joined  with  it  in  harmony 

More  mystical  than  that  which  binds  the  stars  planetary, 

Strike  from  their  several  tones  one  octave  chord 
Whose  cadence  being  measureless  would  fly 

Through  all  the  circling  spheres,  then  to  its  Lord 
Return  refreshed  with  its  new  empery 

And  more  exultant  power, — this  indeed 

Could  we  but  reach  it  w^ere  to  find  the  last,  the  perfect 
creed. 

Ah !  it  was  easy  when  the  world  was  young 

To  keep  one's  life  free  and  inviolate. 
From  our  sad  lips  another  song  is  rung. 

By  our  own  hands  our.  heads  are  desecrate, 
Wanderers  in  drear  exile,  and  dispossessed 
Of  what  should  be  our  owm,  we  can  but  feed  on  wild 
unrest. 

Somehow  the  grace,  the  bloom  of  things  has  flown. 
And  of  all  men  w^e  are  most  wretched  who 

Must  live  each  other's  lives  and  not  our  own 
For  very  pity's  sake  and  then  undo 

All  that  we  lived  for — it  was  othenvise 

When  soul  and  body  seemed  to  blend  in  mystic  sym- 
phonies. 


204  HUMANITAD 

But  we  have  left  those  gentle  haunts  to  pass 

With  weary  feet  to  the  new  Calvary, 
Where  we  behold,  as  one  who  in  a  glass 

Sees  his  own  face,  self-slain  Humanity, 
And  in  the  dumb  reproach  of  that  sad  gaze 
Learn  what  an  awful  phantom  the  red  hand  of  man  can 
raise. 

O  smitten  mouth  !    O  forehead  crowned  with  thorn ! 

O  chalice  of  all  common  miseries ! 
Thou  for  our  sakes  that  loved  thee  not  hast  borne 

An  agony  of  endless  centuries. 
And  we  were  vain  and  ignorant  nor  knew 
That  when  we  stabbed  thy  heart  it  was  our  own  real 
hearts  we  slew. 

Being  ourselves  the  sowers  and  the  seeds. 

The  night  that  covers  and  the  lights  that  fade, 

The  spear  that  pierces  and  the  side  that  bleeds, 
The  lips  betraying  and  the  life  betrayed ; 

The  deep  hath  calm:  the  moon  hath  rest:  but  we 

Lords  of  the  natural  world  are  yet  our  own  dread  enemy. 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  that  primal  force 
Which,  in  its  changes  being  still  the  same. 

From  eyeless  Chaos  cleft  its  upward  course. 

Through  ravenous  seas  and  whirling  rocks  and  flame. 

Till  the  suns  met  in  heaven  and  began 

Their  cycles,  and  the  morning  stars  sang,  and  the  Word 
was  Man ! 


HUMANITAl)  20S 

Nay,  na}',  we  are  but  crucified,  and  though 

The  bloody  sweat  falls  from  our  brows  like  rain. 

Loosen  the  nails — we  shall  come  down  I  know, 

Staunch  the  red  wounds — we  shall  be  whole  again. 

No  need  have  we  of  hyssop-laden  rod, 

Tliat  which  is  purely  human,  that  is  Godlike,  that  is  God. 


FLOWER   OF   LOVE 


rAYKTniKPOS  EPQ2 

SWEET  I  blame  jou  not  for  mine  the  fault  was,  liad 
I  not  been  made  of  common  clay 
I  had  climbed  the  higher  heights  unclimbed  yet,  seen  the 
fuller  air,  the  larger  day. 

From  the  wildness  of  my  wasted  passion  I  had  struck  a 

better,  clearer  song. 
Lit  some  lighter  light  of  freer  freedom,  battled  with  some 

Hydra-headed  wrong. 

Had  my  lips  been  smitten  into  music  by  the  kisses  that 
but  made  them  bleed. 

You  had  walked  with  Bice  and  the  angels  on  that  ver- 
dant and  enamelled  mead. 

I  had  trod  the  road  which  Dante  treading  saw  the  suns 

of  seven  circles  shine. 
Ay !  perchance  had  seen  the  heavens  opening,  as  they 

oj>ened  to  the  Florentine. 

And  the  mighty  nations  would  have  crowned  me,  who  am 

crownless  now  and  without  name, 
And  some  orient  dawn  had   found  me  kneeling  on  the 

threshold  of  the  House  of  Fame. 
209 


210  FLOWER    OF    LOVE 

I  had  sat  within  that  marble  circle  where  the  oldest  bard 

is  as  the  young, 
And  the  pipe  is  ever  dropping  honey,  and  the  lyre's 

strings  are  ever  strung. 

Keats  had  lifted  up  his  hymeneal  curls   from  out  the 

poppy-seeded  wine, 
With  ambrosial  mouth  had  kissed  my  forehead,  clasped 

the  hand  of  noble  love  in  mine. 

And  at  springtide,  when  the  apple-blossoms  brush  the 

burnished  bosom  of  the  dove. 
Two  young  lovers  lying  in  an  orchard  would  have  read 

the  story  of  our  love. 

Would  have  read  the  legend  of  my  passion,  known  the 

bitter  secret  of  my  heart. 
Kissed  as  we  have  kissed,  but  never  parted  as  we  two  are 

fated  now  to  part. 

For  the  crimson  flower  of  our  life  is  eaten  by  the  canker- 
worm  of  truth. 

And  no  hand  can  gather  up  the  fallen  withered  petals 
of  the  rose  of  youth. 

Yet  I  am  not  sorry  that  I  loved  you — ah !  what  else  had 
I  a  boy  to  do, — 

For  the  hungry  teeth  of  time  devour,  and  the  silent- 
footed  years  pursue. 


FLOWER    OF    LOVE  211 

Rudderless,  we  drift  athwart  a  tempest,  and  when  once 

the  stomi  of  youth  is  past. 
Without  lyre,  without  lute  or  chorus,  Death  the  silent 

pilot  comes  at  last. 

And  within  the  grave  there  is  no  pleasure,  for  the  blind- 

wonn  battens  on  the  root, 
And  Desire  shudders  into  ashes,  and  the  tree  of  Passion 

bears  no  fniit. 

Ah  !  what  else  had  I  to  do  but  love  you,  God's  own  mother 

was  less  dear  to  me. 
And  less  dear  the  Cytheraean  rising  like  an  argent  lily 

from  the  sea. 

I  have  made  my  choice,  have  lived  my  poems,  and,  though 

youth  is  gone  in  wasted  days, 
I  have  found  the  lover's  crown  of  myrtle  better  than  the 

poet's  crown  of  bays. 


i 


THE    SPHINX 

MDCCCXCIV 


THE    SPHINX 


T  N  a  dim  comer  of  my  room  for  longer  than  my  fancy 
■•■  thinks 

A  beautiful  and  silent  Sphinx  has  watched  me  through 
the  shifting  gloom. 


Inviolate  and  immobile  she  does  not  rise,  she  does  not 

stir, 
For  silver  moons  are  naught  to  her  and  naught  to  her  the 

suns  that  reel. 

Red  follows  grey  across  the  air  the  waves  of  moonlight 

ebb  and  flow 
But  with  the  Dawn  she  does  not  go  and  in  the  night-time 

she  is  there. 

Dawn  follows  Dawn  and  Nights  grow  old  and  all  the 

while  this  curious  cat 
Lies  crouching  on  the  Chinese  mat  with  eyes  of  satin 

rimmed  with  gold. 

Upon  the  mat  she  lies  and  leers  and  on  the  tawny  throat 

of  her 
Flutters  the  soft  and  silky  fur  or  ripples  to  her  pointed 

ears. 

215 


216  THE    SPHINX 

Come  forth  my  lovely  seneschal!  so  somnolent,  so  statu- 
esque ! 

Come  forth  you  exquisite  grotesque  !  half  woman  and  half 
animal ! 


Come  forth  my  lovely  languorous  Sphinx !  and  put  your 

head  upon  my  knee ! 
And  let  me  stroke  your  throat  and  see  your  body  spotted 

like  the  Lynx! 

And  let  me  touch  those  curving  claws  of  yellow  ivory  and 

grasp 
The  tail  that  like  a  monstrous  Asp  coils  round  your 

heavy  velvet  paws ! 


THE    SPHINX  217 


A    THOUSAND  weary  centuries  are  tliine  while  I 
have  hardly  seen 
Some  twenty   summers  cast  their  green   for  Autumn's 
gaudy  liveries. 


But  you  can  read  the  Hieroglyphs  on  the  great  sand- 
stone obelisks, 

And  3'ou  have  talked  with  Basilisks,  and  you  have  looked 
on  Hippogriffs. 

O  tell  me,  were  you  standing  b}'  when  Isis  to  Osiris  knelt? 
And  did  you  watch  the  Egyptian  melt  lier  union  for 
Antony 

And  drink  the  jewel-drunken  wine  and  bend  her  head  in 

mimic  awe 
To  see  the  huge  proconsul  draw  the  salted  tunny  from 

the  brine? 

And  did  you  mark  the  Cyprian  kiss  wliite  Adon  on  his 

catafalque  ? 
And  did  you  follow  Amcnalk,  the  god  of  Heliopolis? 

And  did  you   talk   with  Thoth,  and   did  3'ou  hear  the 

moon-horned  lo  weep? 
And   know    the    painted   kings    who    sleep    beneath    the 

wedge-shaped  pyramid? 


218  THE    SPHINX 


T     IFT  up  your  large  black  satin  eyes  which  are  like 
-*— ^       cushions  where  one  sinks! 

Fawn  at  my  feet  fantastic  Sphinx !  and  sing  me  all  your 
memories ! 


Sing  to  me  of  the  Jewish  maid  who  wandered  with  the 

Holy  Child, 
And  how  you  led  them  through  the  wild,  and  how  they 

slept  beneath  your  shade. 

Sing  to  me  of  that  odorous  green  eve  when  couching  by 

the  marge 
You  heard  from  Adrian's  gilded  barge  the  laughter  of 

Antinous 

And  lapped  the  stream  and  fed  your  drouth  and  watched 
with  hot  and  hungry  stare 

The  ivory  body  of  that  rare  young  slave  with  his  pome- 
granate mouth! 

Sing  to  me  of  the  Labyrinth  in  which  the  twy-formed 

bull  was  stalled! 
Sing  to  me  of  the  night  you  crawled  across  the  temple's 

granite  plinth 


THE    SPHINX  219 

When  through  the  purple  corridors  the  screaming  scarlet 

Ibis  flew 
In  terror,  and  a  horrid  dew  dripped  from  the  moaning 

Mandragores, 

And  the  great  torpid  crocodile  within  the  tank  shed  slimy 

tears, 
And  tare  the  jewels  from  his  ears  and  staggered  back 

into  the  Nile, 

And  the  priests  cursed  you  with  shrill  psalms  as  in  your 

claws  you  seized  their  snake 
And  crept  away  with  it  to  slake  your  passion  by  the 

shuddering  palms. 


220  THE    SPHINX 


WHO  were  your  lovers  ?  who  were  they  who  wrestled 
for  you  in  the  dust? 
Which  was  the  vessel  of  your  Lust?    What  Leman  had 
you,  every  day? 


Did  giant  lizards  come  and  crouch  before  you  on  the 

reedy  banks? 
Did  Gryphons  with  great  metal  flanks  leap  on  you  in 

your  trampled  couch  ? 

Did  monstrous  hippopotami  come  sidling  toward  you  in 

the  mist? 
Did  gilt-scaled  dragons  writhe  and  twist  with  passion  as 

you  passed  them  by? 

And  from  the  brick-built  Lycian  tomb  what  horrible  Chi- 
mera came 

With  fearful  heads  and  fearful  flame  to  breed  new  won- 
ders from  your  womb? 


THE    SPHINX  221 


OR  had  you  shameful  secret  quests  and  did  you  harry 
to  your  lionie 
Some  Nereid   coiled    in    amber   foam   with   curious   rock 
crystal  breasts? 

Or  did  you  treading  through  the  froth  call  to  the  brown 

Sidonian 
For  tidings  of  Leviathan,  Leviathan  or  Behemoth? 

Or  did  you  when  the  sun  was  set  climb  up  the  cactus- 
covered  slope 

To  meet  your  sw^arthy  Ethiop  whose  body  was  of  polished 
jet? 

Or  did  you  while  the  earthen  skiffs  dropped  down  the 
gre}'  Nilotic  flats 

At  twilight  and  the  flickering  bats  flew  round  the  tem- 
ple's triple  glyphs 

Steal  to  the  border  of  the  bar  and  swim  across  the  silent 

lake 
And  slink  into  the  vault  and  make  the  Pyramid  your 

lupanar 

Till  from  each  black  sarcophagus  rose  up  the  painted 

swathed  dead? 
Or  did  you  lure  unto  your  bed  tlie  ivory -horned  Tragel- 

aphos  ? 


222  THE    SPHINX 

Or  did  you  love  the  god  of  flies  who  plagued  the  Hebrews 

and  was  splashed 
With  wine  unto  the  waist?  or  Pasht,  who  had  green 

beryls  for  her  eyes? 

Or  that  young  god,  the  Tyrian,  who  was  more  amorous 

than  the  dove 
Of  Ashtaroth?  or  did  vou  love  the  god  of  the  Assyrian 

Whose  wings,  like  strange  transparent  talc,  rose  high 

above  his  hawk-faced  head, 
Painted  with  silver  and  with  red  and  ribbed  with  rods  of 

Oreichalch  ? 

Or  did  huge  Apis  from  his  car  leap  down  and  lay  before* 
your  feet 

Big  blossoms  of  the  honey-sweet  and  honey-coloured  nen- 
uphar? 


THE    SPHINX  223 


T  T  OW  subtle-secret  is  your  smile !    Did  you  love  none 
^  ^      then?     Nay,  I  know 

Great  Ammon  was  your  bedfellow!     He  lay  with  you 
beside  the  Nile! 


The  river-horses  in  the  slime  trumpeted  when  they  saw 
him  come 

Odorous  with  Syrian  galbanum  and  smeared  with  spike- 
nard and  with  thyme. 

He  came  along  the  river-bank  like  some  tall  galley  ar- 
gent-sailed, 

He  strode  across  the  waters,  mailed  in  beauty,  and  the 
waters  sank. 

He  strode  across  the  desert  sand :  he  reached  the  valley 

where  you  lay : 
He  waited  till  the  dawn  of  day :  then  touched  your  black 

breasts  with  his  hand. 

You  kissed  his  mouth  with  mouths  of  flame:  3^ou  made 

the  horned  god  your  own : 
You  stood  behind  him  on  his  throne:  you  called  him  by 

his  secret  name. 


224  THE    SPHINX 

You  whispered  monstrous  oracles  into  the  caverns  of  his 

ears: 
With  blood  of  goats  and  blood  of  steers  you  taught  him 

monstrous  miracles. 

White  Ammon  was  your  bedfellow !    Your  chamber  was 

the  steaming  Nile ! 
And  with  your  curved   archaic  smile  you  watched  his 

passion  come  and  go. 


THE    SPHINX  225 


WITH  Syrian  oils  his  brows  were  bright :  and  wide- 
spread as  a  tent  at  noon 
His  marble  limbs  made  pale  the  moon  and  lent  the  day  a 
larger  light. 


His  long  hair  was  nine  cubits'  span  and  coloured  like 

that  yellow  gem 
Which  hidden   in   their   garment's   hem   the   merchants 

bring  from  Kurdistan. 

His  face  was  as  the  must  that  lies  upon  a  vat  of  new- 
made  wine: 

The  seas  could  not  insapphirine  the  perfect  azure  of  his 
eyes. 

His  thick  soft  throat  was  white  as  milk  and  threaded 

with  thin  veins  of  blue : 
And  curious  pearls  like  frozen  dew  were  broidered  on  his 

flowing  silk. 


226  THE    SPHINX 


ON  pearl  and  porphyry  pedestalled  he  was  too  bright 
to  look  upon : 
For  on  his  ivory  breast  there  shone  the  wondrous  ocean- 
emerald, 


That  mystic  moonlit  jewel  which  some  diver  of  the  Col- 

chian  caves 
Had  found  beneath  the  blackening  waves  and  carried  to 

the  Colchian  witch. 

Before  his  gilded  galiot  ran  naked  vine-wreathed  cory- 

bants, 
And  lines  of  swaying  elephants  knelt  down  to  draw  his 

chariots, 

And  lines  of  swarthy  Nubians  bare  up  his  litter  as  he 

rode 
Down  the  great  granite-paven  road  between  the  nodding 

peacock-fans. 

The  merchants  brought  him  steatite  from  Sidon  in  their 

painted  ships : 
The  meanest  cup  that  touched  his  lips  was  fashioned 

from  a  chrysolite. 

The  merchants  brought  him  cedar-chests  of  rich  apparel 

bound  with  cords : 
His  train  was  borne  by  INIemphian  lords:  young  kings 

were  glad  to  be  his  guests. 


THE    SPHINX  227 

Ten  hundred  shaven  priests  did  bow  to  Amnion's  altar 
day  and  night, 

Ten  hundred  hini})s  did  wave  their  Hght  through  Am- 
nion's carveii  house — and  now 

Foul   snake  and  speckled  adder  with  their  young  ones 

crawl  from  stone  to  stone 
For  ruined  is  the  house  and  prone  the  great  rose-marble 

monolith ! 

Wild  ass  or  trotting  jackal  comes  and  couches  in  the 

mouldering  gates: 
Wild  satyrs  call  unto  their  mates  across  the  fallen  fluted 

drums. 

And  on  the  summit  of  the  pile  the  blue-faced  ape  of 

Horus  sits 
And  gibbers  while  ^he  fig-tree  splits  the  pillars  of  the 

peristyle;^ 


228  THE    SPHINX 


THE  god  is  scattered  here  and  there:  deep  hidden 
in  the  windy  sand 
I  saw  his  giant  granite  hand  still  clenched  in  impotent 
despair. 


And   many    a    wandering   caravan   of    stately    negroes 

silken-shawled, 
Crossing  the  desert,  halts  appalled  before  the  neck  that 

none  can  span. 

And  many  a  bearded  Bedouin  draws  back  his  yellow- 
striped  burnous 

To  gaze  upon  the  Titan  thews  of  him  who  was  thy 
paladin. 


THE    SPHINX  229 


GO,  sock  his  fragments  on  the  moor  and  wash  them 
in  the  evening  dew, 
And  from  their  pieces  make  anew  thy  mutilated  para- 
mour! 


Go,  seek  them  where  they  he  alone  and  from  their  broken 

pieces  make 
Thy  bruised  bedfellow!     And  wake  mad  passions  in  the 

senseless  stone! 

Charm  his  dull  ear  with  Syrian  hymns !  he  loved  your 

body !  oh,  be  kind, 
Pour  spikenard  on  his  hair,  and  wind  soft  rolls  of  linen 

round  his  limbs  I 

Wind  round  his  head  the  figured  coins !  stain  with  red 

fruits  those  pallid  lips  ! 
Weave  purple  for  his  shrunken  hips !  and  purple  for  his 

barren  loins ! 


230  THE    SPHINX 


A   WAY  to  Egypt !     Have  no  fear.     Only  one  God 
-^^^       has  ever  died. 

Only  one  God  has  let  His  side  be  wounded  by  a  soldier's 
spear. 


But  these,  thy  lovers,  are  not  dead.  Still  by  the  hun- 
dred-cubit gate 

Dog-faced  Anubis  sits  in  state  with  lotus-lilies  for  thy 
head. 

Still  from  his  chair  of  porphyry  gaunt  Memnon  strains 

his  lidless  eyes 
Across  the  empty  land,  and  cries  each  yellow  morning 

unto  thee. 

And  Nilus  with  his  broken  horn  lies  in  his  black   and 

oozy  bed 
And  till  thy  coming  will  not  spread  his  waters  on  the 

withering  com. 

Your  lovers  are  not  dead,  I  know.    They  will  rise  up  and 

hear  your  voice 
And  clash  their  cymbals   and  rejoice  and   run  to  kiss 

your  mouth  !    And  so, 


THE    SPHINX  231 

Set  wings  upon  your  argosies !     Set  horses  to  your  ebon 

car! 
Back  to  3'our  Nile!     Or  if  you  are  grown  sick  of  dead 

divinities 

Follow  some  roving  lion's  spoor  across  the  copper- 
coloured  plain, 

Reach  out  and  hale  him  by  the  mane  and  bid  liim  be 
your  paramour! 

Couch  by  his  side  upon  the  grass  and  set  your  white 

teeth  in  his  throat 
And  when  you  hear  his  dying  note  lash  your  long  flanks 

of  polished  brass 

And  take  a  tiger  for  your  mate,  whose  amber  sides  are 

flecked  with  black, 
And  ride  upon  his  gilded  back  in  triumph  through  the 

Theban  gate, 

And  toy  with  him  in  amorous  jests,  and  when  he  turns, 

and  snarls,  and  gnaws, 
O  smite  him  witli  your  jasper  claws!  and  bruise  him 

with  your  agate  breasts ! 


232  THE    SPHINX 


WHY  are  you  tarrying?     Get  hence!     I  weary  of 
3^our  sullen  ways, 
I  weary  of  your  steadfast  gaze,  your  somnolent  mag- 
nificence. 


Your  horrible  and  heavy  breath  makes  the  light  flicker 

in  the  lamp, 
And  on  my  brow  I  feel  the  damp  and  dreadful  dews  of 

night  and  death. 

Your  eyes  are  like  fantastic  moons  that  shiver  in  some 
stagnant  lake, 

Your  tongue  is  like  a  scarlet  snake  that  dances  to  fan- 
tastic tunes, 

Your  pulse  makes  poisonous  melodies,  and  your  black 
throat  is  like  the  hole 

Left  by  some  torch  or  burning  coal  on  Saracenic  tapes- 
tries. 

Away !      The    sulphur-coloured     stars     are     hurrying 

through  the  Western  gate ! 
Away !    Or  it  may  be  too  late  to  climb  their  silent  silver 


THE    SPHINX  233 

See,  the  dawn  shivers  round  the  grey  gilt-dialled  tow- 
ers, and  the  rain 

Streams  down  each  diamonded  pane  and  blurs  with  tears 
the  wannish  day. 

What  snake-tressed  fury  fresh  from  Hell,  with  uncouth 

gestures  and  unclean. 
Stole  from  the  poppy-drowsy  queen  and  led  you  to  a 

student's  cell? 


234  THE    SPHINX 


WHAT    songless    tongueless    ghost    of    sin    crept 
through  the  curtains  of  the  night, 
And  saw  my  taper  burning  bright,  and  knocked,  and 
bade  you  enter  in? 

Are  there  not  others  more  accursed,  whiter  with  lepro- 
sies than  I? 

Are  Abana  and  Pharpar  dry  that  you  come  here  to 
slake  your  thirst? 

Get  hence,  you  loathsome  mystery !     Hideous   animal, 

get  hence ! 
You  wake  in  me  each  bestial  sense,  you  make  me  what 

I  would  not  be. 

You   make  my   creed   a   barren   sham,   you   wake   foul 

dreams  of  sensual  life, 
And  Atys  with  his  blood-stained  knife  were  better  than 

the  thing  I  am. 

False    Sphinx !      False    Sphinx !      By    reedy    Styx    old 

Charon,  leaning  on  his  oar. 
Waits  for  my  coin.     Go  thou  before,  and  leave  me  to 
I  my  crucifix, 

Whose  pallid  burden,  sick  with  pain,  watches  the  world 

with  wearied  eyes. 
And  weeps  for  every  soul  that  dies,  and  weeps  for  every 

soul  in  vain. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 

MDCCCXCVIII 


IN   MEMORIAM 
C.  T.   W. 

SOMETIME  TROOPER  OF  THE  ROYAL  HORSE  GUARDS 

OBIIT  H.  M.  PRISON.  READING.  BERKSHIRE 

JULY  7.  1896 


V 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 

I       ^t^ 

HE  did  not  wear  his  scarlet  coat, 
For  blood  and  wine  are  red, 
And  blood  and  wine  were  on  his  hands 

When  they  found  him  with  the  dead, 
The  poor  dead  woman  whom  he  loved, 
And  murdered  in  her  bed. 

He  walked  amongst  the  Trial  Men 

In  a  suit  of  shabby  grey ; 
A  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head, 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay; 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

So^istfulmat  the  day. 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

With  such  a^ustfuh^ye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky. 
And  at  every  drifting  cloud  that  went 

With  sails  of  silver  by. 

I  walked,  with  othar  souls  in  pain, 
Within  another  ring, 
237 


238   THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 

And  was  wondering  if  the  man  had  done 

A  great  ar  httle  thing, 
When  a  voice  behind  me  whispered  low, 

''That  fellow's  got  to  swing.'* 

Dear  Christ !  the  very  prison  walls 

Suddenly  seemed  to  reel, 
And  the  sky  ^bbve  my  head  became 

Like  a  casque  of  scorching  steel ; 
And,  though  I  was  a  soul  ^\^^^ 

My^aln^I  could  not  feel. 

I  only  knew  what  hunted  thought 

Quickened  his  step,  and  why 
He  looked  upon  the  garish  day 

With  such  a[wistful^i^ 
The  man  had  killed  the  thingJi£_lQyed, 

And  so  he  hkd  to  die. 


Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  lovga, 

By  each  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look^/ 

Some  with  a  flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss. 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword ! 

Some  kill  their  love  when  they  are  young, 
And  some  when  they  are  old; 

Some  strangle  with  the  hands  of  Lust, 
Some  with  the  hands  of  Gold ; 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL   239 


The  kiiulcst  use  a  knife,  because 
The  dead  so  soon  grow  cold. 

Some  love  too  little,  some  too  long, 
Some  sell,  and  others  buy ; 

Soni£-.do  the  deed  with  many  tears, 
And  some  without  a  sigh : 

For  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 


He  does  not  die  a  death  of  shame 

On  a  day  of  dark  disgrace, 
Nor  have  a  noose  about  his  neck. 

Nor  a  cloth  upon  his  face, 
Nor  drop  feet  foremost  through  the  floor 

Into  an  empty  space. 

He  dqes  not  sit  with  silent  men 
Who'^.watch  him  night  and  day ; 

Who  watch  him  when  he  tries  to  weep, 
And  wheiVvJbe  tries  to  pray; 

Who  watch  hiihslest  himself  should  rob 
The  prison  of  its  prey. 

He  does  not  wake  at  cfawn  to  see 
Dread  figures  th^ng  his  room, 

The  shivering  CJ^iplkin  robed  in  whibe, 
The  Sheriff/stcni  with  gloom. 

And  the  Governor  all  ill  shiny  black, 
With  i\f:  yellow  face  of  Doom. 


240   THE  BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL 

He  does  not  risle  in  piteous  haste 

To  put  on  convict-plbthes, 
While  some  coarscT^outhed  Doctor  gloats,  and  notes 

Each  new  an[J/nerve-twitched  pose, 
Fingering  a  wAch  whose  little  ticks 

Are  like  horrible  hammer-blows. 

He  does  not\know  that  sickening  thirst 

That  sandsvone;^  throat,  before 
The  hangman  wrth  his  gardener's  gloves 

Slips  through  the  padded  door. 
And  binds  ony^  with  Ihree  leathern  thongs. 

That  the  throat  may  thirst  no  more. 

He  does  not  bend  It^  head  to  hear 

The  Burkl  O^ce  read. 
Nor  while  th\^^rror  of  his  soul 

Tells  him  li^^is  not  dead. 
Cross  his  own  coffin,  as  he  moves 

Into  the  /liideous  shed. 

/' 

He  does  njot  stare  lipon  the  air 

Through  a  littj:e  roof  of  glass: 
He  does  not  pra,y  with  lips  of  clay 

For  his  agonV  to  pass ; 
Nor  feel  upoiy^his  shuddering  cheek 

The  kiss  or  Caiaphas. 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READLNG  GAOL   241 


II 


SIX  weeks  bur  guardsman  walked  the  yard, 
In  the  OTiit  of  shabby  grey: 
His  cricket  cao/^as  on  his  head, 

And  his  s;t^p\  seemed  light  and  gay, 
But  I  never  saw.  a  man  who  looked 
So  wistfi/illy  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

Witli  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  Ithat  little  tent  of  blue 

Whi^j^risoners  call  the  sky. 
And  at  eve^  wandering  cloud  that  trailed 

Its  ravelled  fleeces  by.        j^ 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands,  as  do 

Those  ^tless  men  who  dare 
To  try  to  rci^r.  the  cliangeling  Hope 

In  the  cave  6f  black  Despair: 
He  only  looked  hpon  the  sun, 

And  drank  the  morning  air. 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands  nor, weep, 
Nor  did  he  peek  or  pine, 


242   THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL 

But  he  drank  the  air  as  though  it  held 

Some  healthful  anodyne ; 
With  open  mouth  he  drank  the  sunv^    , 

As  though  it  had  been  wine ! 


And  I  and  all  the  souls  in 


pam, 


Who  tramped  the  other  ring.^ 
Forgot  if  we  ourselves  had  done 
great  or  little  thin^^ 
watched  with  gaze  of  dull  amaze 
The  man  who  ha3~"to  swin^ 


And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  pass" 
With  a  step  so  light  and  gay, 

And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  look 
S(^^^^istfully^t  the  day, 

And  strange  it  was  to  think  that  he 
Had  such  a  debt  to  pay. 


A 


For  oak  and  elm  have  pleasant  leaves 

That  in  the  spring-time  shoot : 
But  grim  to  see  is  the  gallows-tree, 
With  its  adder-bitten  root, 
V  And,  green  or  dry,  a  man  must  die 
efore  it  bears  its  fruit! 

The  loftiest  place  is  that  scat  of  grace  v 
For  which  all  worldlings  try: 

But  who  would  stand  in  hempen  band 
Upon  a  scaffold  high, 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL  243 

/  > — -  — ^ 

And  through  a  murderer's  collar  take 
His  last  look  at  the^T^y?) 

It  is  sweet  toCjJIi^^  to  violins 

When^ovc  andj^ife  are  fair: 
Tormnce)to  alites,  to^ftanc^^  to  (jutes 
( y>  ^Is  d(*Iicato  and  rare:  /       y 

l^^ut  it  isii4t  sweet  with  nimlQe  feet 
To  (4?t4^p  hpon  the  air! 

So  with  curious  eyes, and  sick  surmise^ 

We  watched  him  da}^  by  day, 
And  wondered  if  each  one  of  us 

Would  end  the  self-same  way, 
'  '     l^  For  none  can  tell  to  what  red  Hell 

His  sightless  soul  may  stray. 

At  last  the  dead  man  walked  no  more  <r  (  ^r<- 
Amongst  the  Trial  Men,  ^^P 

And  I  knew  that  he  was  standing  up 
In  the  black  dock's  dreadful  pen, 

And  that  never  would  I  see  his  face 
In  God's  yvvegl  world  again. 

1         . 

Like  two  doomed  ships  that  pass  in  storm 

We  had  crossed  each  other's  way : 
\     But  we  made  no  sign,  we  said  no  word, 
We  had  no  word  to  say  ; 
For  we  did  not  meet  in  the  holy  night. 
But  in  the  shameful  day. 


244   THE  BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 

A  prison  wall  was  round  us  both, 

Two  outcast  men  we  were: 
The  world  had  thrust  us  from  its  heart, 

And  God  from  out  His  care : 
j/And  the  iron  gin  that  waits  for  Sin 

Had  caught  us  in  its  snare. 


i 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL  245 


III 

TN  Debtors'  Yard  the  stones  are  hard, 
-■■      And  the  dripping  wall  is  high, 
So  it  was  there  he  took  the  air 

Beneath  the  leaden  sky. 
And  by  each  side  a  Warder  walked. 

For  fear  the  man  might  die. 

Or  else  he  sat  with  those  who  watched 

His  anguish  night  and  day ; 
Who  watched  him  when  he  rose  to  weep, 

And  when  he  crouched  to  pray ; 
Who  watched  him  lest  himself  should  rob 

Their  scaffold  of  its  prey. 

The  Governor  was  strong  upon 

The  Regulations  Act: 
The  Doctor  said  that  Death  was  but 

A  scientific  fact : 
And  twice  a  day  the  Chaplain  called. 

And  left  a  little  tract. 

And  twice  a  day  he  smoked  his  pipe, 
And  drank  his  quart  of  beer: 

His  soul  was  resolute,  and  held 
No  hiding-place  for  fear; 


246  THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 

He  often  said  that  he  was  glad 
The  hangman's  hands  were  near. 

But  why  he  said  so  strange  a  thing 

No  Warder  dared  to  ask : 
For  he  to  whom  a  watcher's  doom 

Is  given  as  his  task, 
Must  set  a  lock  upon  his  lips, 

And  make  his  face  a  mask. 

Or  else  he  might  be  moved,  and  try 

To  comfort  or  console: 
And  what  should  Human  Pity  do 

Pent  up  in  Murderers'  Hole? 
What  word  of  grace  in  such  a  place 

Could  help  a  brother's  soul  ? 


With  slouch  and  swing  around  the  ring 

We  trod  the  Fools'  Parade! 
We  did  not  care :  we  knew  we  were 

The  Devil's  Own  Brigade : 
And  shaven  head  and  feet  of  lead 

Make  a  merry  masquerade. 

We  tore  the  tarry  rope  to  shreds 

With  blunt  and  bleeding  nails ; 
We  rubbed  the  doors,  and  scrubbed  the  floors, 

And  cleaned  the  shining  rails : 
And,  rank  by  rank,  we  soaped  the  plank. 

And  clattered  with  the  pails. 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL   247 

We  sewed  the  sacks,  we  bruke  the  stones, 

We  turned  the  dusty  drill : 
We  banged  the  tins,  and  bawled  the  hymns. 

And  sweated  on  the  mill : 
But  in  the  heart  of  every  man 

Terror  was  lying  still. 

So  still  it  lay  that  every  day 

Crawled  like  a  weed-clogged  wave: 

And  we  forgot  the  bitter  lot 
That  waits  for  fool  and  knave, 

Till  once,  as  we  tramped  in  from  work, 
We  passed  an  open  grave. 

With  yawning  mouth  the  yellow  hole 

Gaped  for  a  living  thing; 
The  very  mud  cried  out  for  blood 

To  the  thirsty  asphalte  ring: 
And  we  knew  that  ere  one  dawn  grew  fair 

Some  prisoner  had  to  swing. 

Right  in  we  went,  with  soul  intent 
On  Death  and  Dread  and  Doom : 

The  hangman,  with  his  little  bag. 
Went  shuffling  through  the  gloom : 

And  each  man  trembled  as  he  crept 
Into  his  numbered  tomb. 


That  night  the  empty  corridors 
Were  full  of  fonns  of  Fear, 


248   THE  BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 

And  up  and  down  the  iron  town 
Stole  feet  we  could  not  hear, 

And  through  the  bars  that  hide  the  stars 
White  faces  seemed  to  peer. 

He  lay  as  one  who  lies  and  dreams 

In  a  pleasant  meadow-land, 
The  watchers  watched  him  as  he  slept, 

And  could  not  understand 
How  one  could  sleep  so  sweet  a  sleep 

With  a  hangman  close  at  hand. 

But  there  is  no  sleep  when  men  must  weep 

Who  never  yet  have  wept : 
So  we — the  fool,  the  fraud,  the  knave — 

That  endless  vigil  kept, 
And  through  each  brain  on  hands  of  pain 

Another's  terror  crept. 


Alas !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  feel  another's  guilt! 
For,  right  within,  the  sword  of  Sin 

Pierced  to  its  poisoned  hilt. 
And  as  molten  lead  were  the  tears  we  shed 

For  the  blood  we  had  not  spilt. 

The  Warders  with  their  shoes  of  felt 
Crept  by  each  padlocked  door. 

And  peeped  and  saw,  with  eyes  of  awe. 
Grey  figures  on  the  floor, 


i 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL   249 

And  wondered  why  men  knelt  to  pray 
Who  never  prayed  before. 

All  through  the  night  we  knelt  and  prayed, 

Mad  mourners  of  a  corse! 
The  troubled  plumes  of  midnight  were 

The  plumes  upon  a  hearse: 
And  bitter  wine  upon  a  sponge 

Was  the  savour  of  Remorse. 


The  grey  cock  crew,  the  red  cock  crew. 

But  never  came  the  day : 
And  crooked  shapes  of  Terror  crouched, 

In  the  comers  where  we  lay : 
And  each  evil  sprite  that  walks  by  night 

Before  us  seemed  to  play. 

They  glided  past,  they  glided  fast. 

Like  travellers  through  a  mist : 
They  mocked  the  moon  in  a  rigadoon 

Of  delicate  turn  and  twist. 
And  with  formal  pace  and  loathsome  grace 

The  phantoms  kept  their  tryst. 

With  mop  and  mow,  we  saw  them  go, 

Slim  shadows  hand  in  liand : 
About,  about,  in  ghostly  rout 

They  trod  a  saraband : 
And  the  damned  grotesques  made  arabesques, 

Like  the  wind  upon  the  sand ! 


250   THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 

With  the  pirouettes  of  marionettes, 
They  tripped  on  pointed  tread : 

But  with  flutes  of  Fear  they  filled  the  ear, 
As  their  grisly  masque  they  led, 

And  loud  they  sang,  and  long  they  sang, 
For  they  sang  to  wake  the  dead. 

**07io/"  they  cried,  ^'Tlie  world  is  wide. 
But  fettered  limbs  go  lame! 

And  once,  or  twice,  to  throw  the  dice 
Is  a  gentlemanly  game, 

But  he  does  not  win  who  plays  with  Sin 
In  the  secret  House  of  Shame.'* 


No  things  of  air  these  antics  were, 

That  frolicked  with  such  glee : 
To  men  whose  lives  were  held  in  gyves. 

And  whose  feet  might  not  go  free. 
Ah !  wounds  of  Christ !  they  were  living  things, 

Most  terrible  to  see. 

Around,  around,  they  waltzed  and  wound; 

Some  wheeled  in  smirking  pairs; 
With  the  mincing  step  of  a  demirep 

Some  sidled  up  the  stairs : 
And  with  subtle  sneer,  and  fawning  leer, 

Each  helped  us  at  our  prayers. 

The  morning  wind  began  to  moan. 
But  still  the  night  went  on : 


THE    BALLAD   OF    READING   GAOL   251 

Through  Its  giant  loom  the  web  of  gloom 
Crept  till  viich  thread  was  spun: 

And,  as  we  prayetl,  we  grew   afraid 
Of  the  Justice  of  the  Sun. 

The  moaning  wind  went  wandering  round 

The  weeping  prison-wall: 
Till  like  a  wheel  of  turning  steel 

We  felt  the  minutes  crawl : 
O  moaning  wind!  what  had  we  done 

To  have  such  a  seneschal? 

At  last  I  saw  the  shadowed  bars, 
Like  a  lattice  wrought  in  lead, 

Move  right  across  the  whitewashed  wall 
That  faced  my  three-planked  bed, 

And  I  knew  that  somewhere  in  the  world 
God's  dreadful  dawn  was  red. 


At  six  o'clock  we  cleaned  our  cells. 

At  seven  all  was  still, 
But  the  sough  and  swing  of  a  mighty  wing 

The  prison  seemed  to  fill. 
For  the  Lord  of  Death  with  icy  breath 

Had  entered  in  to  kill. 

He  did  not  pass  in  purple  pomp. 

Nor  ride  a  moon-white  steed. 
Three  yards  of  cord  and  a  sliding  board 

Are  all  the  gallows'  need: 


2S2   THE   BALLAD   OF   READING   GAOL 

So  with  rope  of  shame  the  Herald  came 
To  do  the  secret  deed. 


We  were  as  men  who  through  a  fen 

Of  filthy  darkness  grope : 
We  did  not  dare  to  breathe  a  prayer. 

Or  to  give  our  anguish  scope: 
Something  was  dead  in  each  of  us, 

And  what  was  dead  was  Hope. 

For  Man's  grim  Justice  goes  its  way, 

And  will  not  swerve  aside : 
It  slays  the  weak,  it  slays  the  strong, 

It  has  a  deadly  stride: 
With  iron  heel  it  slays  the  strong, 

The  monstrous  parricide! 

We  waited  for  the  stroke  of  eight: 
Each  tongue  was  thick  with  thirst: 

For  the  stroke  of  eight  is  the  stroke  of  Fate 
That  makes  a  man  accursed, 

And  Fate  will  use  a  running  noose 
For  the  best  man  and  the  worst. 

We  had  no  other  thing  to  do, 

Save  to  wait  for  the  sign  to  come: 

So,  like  things  of  stone  in  a  valley  lone, 
Quiet  we  sat  and  dumb: 

But  each  man's  heart  beat  thick  and  quick, 
Like  a  madman  on  a  drum ! 


THE    BALLAD   OF    READING   GAOL   2S} 

Witli  sudden  shock  the  prison-clock 

Smote  on  the  shivering  air, 
And  from  all  the  gaol  rose  up  a  wail 

Of  impotent  despair, 
Like  the  sound  that  frightened  marshes  hear 

From  some  leper  in  his  lair. 

And  as  one  sees  most  fearful  things 

In  the  crystal  of  a  dream, 
We  saw  the  greasy  hempen  rope 

Hooked  to  the  blackened  beam, 
And  heard  the  prayer  the  hangman's  snare 

Strangled  into  a  scream. 

And  all  the  woe  that  moved  him  so 

That  he  gave  that  bitter  cry. 
And  the  wild  regrets,  and  the  bloody  sweats, 

None  knew  so  well  as  I : 
For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 

More  deaths  than  one  must  die. 


254    THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 


IV 

T  I IHERE  is  no  chapel  on  the  day 

-■-       On  which  they  hang  a  man; 
The  Chaplain's  heart  is  far  too  sick, 

Or  his  face  is  far  too  wan, 
Or  there  is  that  written  in  his  eyes 
Which  none  should  look  upon. 

So  they  kept  us  close  till  nigh  on  noon, 

And  then  they  rang  the  bell, 
And  the  Warders  with  their  jingling  keys 

Opened  each  listening  cell. 
And  down  the  iron  stair  we  tramped. 

Each  from  his  separate  Hell. 

Out  into  God's  sweet  air  we  went. 

But  not  in  wonted  way, 
For  this  man's  face  was  white  with  fear, 

And  that  man's  face  was  grey. 
And  I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

We  prisoners  called  the  sky, 


1 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL   25 S 

And  at  every  cureless  cloud  that  passed 
In  happy  freedom  by. 

But  there  were  those  amongst  us  all 
Who  walked  with  downcast  head, 

And  knew  that,  had  each  got  his  due, 
They  should  have  died  instead : 

He  had  but  killed  a  thing  that  lived, 
Whilst  they  had  killed  the  dead. 

For  he  who  sins  a  second  time 

Wakes  a  dead  soul  to  pain, 
And  draws  it  from  its  spotted  shroud, 

And  makes  it  bleed  again. 
And  makes  it  bleed  great  gouts  of  blood, 

And  makes  it  bleed  in  vain  ! 


Like  ape  or  clown,  in  monstrous  garb 
With  crooked  arrows  starred, 

Silently  we  went  round  and  round 
The  slippery  asphalte  yard; 

Silently  we  went  round  and  round, 
And  no  man  spoke  a  word. 

Silently  we  went  round  and  round, 
And  through  each  hollow  mind 

The  ]\Iemory  of  dreadful  things 
Rushed  like  a  dreadful  wind. 

And  Horror  stalked  before  each  man, 
And  Terror  crept  behind. 


256   THE   BALLAD   OF   READING   GAOL 

The  Warders  stiTitted  up  and  down, 
And  kept  their  herd  of  brutes, 

Their  uniforms  were  spick  and  span. 
And  they  wore  their  Sunday  suits. 

But  we  knew  the  work  they  had  been  at, 
By  the  quicklime  on  their  boots. 

For  where  a  grave  had  opened  wide. 

There  was  no  grave  at  all: 
Only  a  stretch  of  mud  and  sand 

By  the  hideous  prison-wall, 
And  a  little  heap  of  burning  lime. 

That  the  man  should  have  his  pall. 

For  he  has  a  pall,  this  wretched  man, 
Such  as  few  men  can  claim : 

Deep  down  below  a  prison-yard, 
Naked  for  greater  shame, 

He  lies,  with  fetters  on  each  foot, 
Wrapt  in  a  sheet  of  flame ! 

And  all  the  while  the  burning  lime 

Eats  flesh  and  bone  away. 
It  eats  the  brittle  bone  by  night, 

And  the  soft  flesh  by  day. 
It  eats  the  flesh  and  bone  by  turns, 

But  it  eats  the  heart  alway. 


For  three  long  years  they  will  not  sow 
Or  root  or  seedling  there : 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL   257 

F'or  three  long  years  the  unblessed  spot 

Will  sterile  be  and  bare, 
And  look  upon  the  wondering  sky 

With  unreproachful  stare. 

They  think  a  murderer's  heart  would  taint 

Each  simple  seed  they  sow. 
It  is  not  true!     God's  kindly  earth 

Is  kindlier  than  men  know, 
And  the  red  rose  would  but  blow  more  red, 

The  white  rose  whiter  blow. 

Out  of  his  mouth  a  red,  red  rose ! 

Out  of  his  heart  a  white ! 
For  who  can  say  by  what  strange  way. 

Christ  brings  His  will  to  light. 
Since  the  barren  staff  the  pilgrim  bore 

Bloomed  in  the  great  Pope's  sight  ? 


But  neither  milk-white  rose  nor  red 

May  bloom  in  prison  air; 
The  shard,  tlie  pebble,  and  the  flint, 

Are  what  they  give  us  there  : 
For  flowers  have  been  known  to  heal 

A  common  man's  despair. 

So  never  will  wine-red  rose  or  white. 

Petal  by  petal,  fall 
On  that  stretch  of  mud  and  sand  that  lies 

By  the  hideous  prison-wall, 


258   THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 

To  tell  the  men  who  tramp  the  yard  \ 

That  God's  Son  died  for  all. 


Yet  though  the  hideous  prison-wall 
Still  hems  liim  round  and  round, 

And  a  spirit  may  not  walk  by  night 
That  is  with  fetters  bound, 

And  a  spirit  may  but  weep  that  lies 
In  such  unholy  gi^ound, 

He  is  at  peace — this  wretched  man — 

At  peace,  or  will  be  soon : 
There  is  no  thing  to  make  him  mad. 

Nor  does  Terror  walk  at  noon, 
For  the  lampless  Earth  in  which  he  lies 

Has  neither  Sun  nor  Moon. 

They  hanged  him  as  a  beast  is  hanged : 

They  did  not  even  toll 
A  requiem  that  might  have  brought 

Rest  to  his  startled  soul. 
But  hurriedly  they  took  him  out. 

And  hid  him  in  a  hole. 


They  stripped  him  of  his  canvas  clothes, 

And  gave  him  to  the  flies : 
They  mocked  the  swollen  purple  throat. 

And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes : 
And  with  laughter  loud  they  heaped  the  shroud 

In  which  their  convict  lies. 


THE    BALLAD   OF   READING   GAOL   259 

The  Chaplain  would  not  kneel  to  pray 

By  his  dishonoured  grave: 
Nor  mark  it  with  tliat  blessed  Cross 

That  Christ  for  sinners  gave, 
Because  the  man  was  one  of  those 

Whom  Christ  came  down  to  save. 


Yet  all  is  well ;  he  has  but  passed 
To  Life's  appointed  bourne: 

And  alien  tears  will  fill  for  him 
Pity's  long-broken  urn, 

For  his  mourners  will  be  outcast  men. 
And  outcasts  always  mourn. 


260   THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 


I 


KNOW  not  whether  Laws  be  right, 
Or  whether  Laws  be  wrong ; 
"7"     All  that  we  know  who  lie  in  gaol 
Is  that  tlie  wall  is  strong; 
And  that  each  day  is  like  a  year, 
A  year  whose  days  are  long. 

But  this  I  know,  that  every  Law 
That  men  have  made  for  Man, 

Since  first  Man  took  his  brother's  life, 
And  the  sad  world  began, 

But  straws  the  wheat  and  saves  the  chaff 
With  a  most  evil  fan. 

This  too  I  know — and  wise  it  were 
If  each  could  know  the  same — 

That  every  prison  that  men  build 
/  Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame. 

And  bound  with  bars  lest  Christ  should  see 
How  men  their  brothers  maim. 

With  bars  they  blur  the  gracious  moon. 
And  blind  the  goodly  sun : 
,  /     And  they  do  well  to  hide  their  Hell, 
I  For  in  it  things  are  done 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING  GAOL   261 

That  Son  of  God  nor  son  of  Man 
Ever  should  look  upon  ! 


The  vilest  deeds  like  poison  weeds 

Bloom  well  in  prison-air : 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 

That  wastes  and  withers  there: 
Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate, 

And  the  Warder  is  Despair. 

For  they  starve  the  little  frightened  child 
Till  it  weeps  both  night  and  day : 

And  they  scourge  the  weak,  and  flog  the  fool. 
And  gibe  the  old  and  gray, 

And  some  grow  mad,  and  all  grow  bad. 
And  none  a  word  may  say. 

Each  narrow  cell  in  which  we  dwell 

Is  a  foul  and  dark  latrine, 
And  the  fetid  breath  of  living  Death 

Chokes  up  each  grated  screen, 
And  all,  but  Lust,  is  turned  to  dust 

In  Humanity's  machine. 

The  brackish  water  that  we  drink 

Creeps  with  a  loathsome  slime, 
And  the  bitter  bread  they  weigh  in  scales 

Is  full  of  chalk  and  lime. 
And  Sleep  will  not  lie  down,  but  walks 

Wild-eyed,  and  cries  to  Time. 


262  THE   BALLAD   OF   READING  GAOL 


But  though  lean  Hunger  and  green  Thirst 

Like  asp  with  adder  fight, 
We  have  little  care  of  prison  fare, 

For  what  chills  and  kills  outright 
Is  that  every  stone  one  lifts  by  day 

Becomes  one's  heart  by  night. 

With  midnight  always  in  one's  heart, 

And  twilight  in  one's  cell, 
We  turn  the  crank,  or  tear  the  rope. 

Each  in  his  separate  Hell, 
And  the  silence  is  more  awful  far 

Than  the  sound  of  a  brazen  bell. 


<^ 


And  never  a  human  voice  comes  near 

To  speak  a  gentle  word : 
And  the  eye  that  watches  through  the  door 

Is  pitiless  and  hard : 
And  by  all  forgot,  we  rot  and  rot, 

With  soul  and  body  marred. 

And  thus  we  rust  Life's  iron  chain 

Degraded  and  alone: 
And  some  men  curse,  and  some  men  weep. 

And  some  men  make  no  moan : 
But  God's  eternal  Laws  are  kind 

And  break  the  heart  of  stone. 


And  every  human  heart  that  breaks, 
In  prison-cell  or  yard, 


THE   BALLAD  OF   READING   GAOL  263 

Is  as  that  broken  box  that  gave 

Its  treasure  to  the  Lord, 
And  filled  the  unclean  leper's  house 

With  the  scent  of  costliest  nard. 

Ah !  happj  thej  whose  hearts  can  break 

And  peace  of  pardon  win ! 
How  else  may  man  make  straight  his  plan 

And  cleanse  his  soul  from  Sin? 
How  else  but  through  a  broken  heart 

May  Lord  Christ  enter  in? 

And  he  of  the  swollen  purple  throat, 
And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes. 

Waits  for  the  holy  hands  that  took 
The  Thief  to  Paradise ; 

And  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart 
The  Lord  will  not  despise. 

The  man  in  red  who  reads  the  Law 

Gave  him  three  weeks  of  life, 
Three  little  weeks  in  which  to  heal 

His  soul  of  his  soul's  strife, 
And  cleanse  from  every  blot  of  blood 

The  hand  that  held  the  knife. 

And  with  tears  of  blood  he  cleansed  the  hand. 

The  hand  that  held  the  steel : 
For  only  blood  can  wipe  out  blood, 

And  only  tears  can  heal : 
And  the  crimson  stain  that  was  of  Cain 

Became  Christ's  snow-white  seal. 


264  THE   BALLAD  OF   READING   GAOL 


VI 

IN  Reading  gaol  by  Reading  town 
There  is  a  pit  of  shame, 
And  in  it  Hes  a  wretched  man 

Eaten  by  teeth  of  flame, 
In  a  burning  winding-sheet  he  lies, 
And  his  grave  has  got  no  name. 

And  there,  till  Christ  call  forth  the  dead, 

In  silence  let  him  lie: 
No  need  to  waste  the  foolish  tear; 

Or  heave  the  windy  sigh : 
The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved, 

And  so  he  had  to  die. 

And  all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love, 

By  all  let  this  be  heard. 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with  a  flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss. 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword! 

C.  3.  3. 


UNCOLLECTED   POEMS 


FROM    SPRING    DAYS    TO    WINTER 

(for  music) 

IN  the  glad  spring  time  when  leaves  were  green, 
O  merrilj'  the  throstle  sings ! 
I  sought,  amid  the  tangled  sheen, 
Love  whom  mine  eyes  had  never  seen, 
O  the  glad  dove  has  golden  wings ! 

Between  the  blossoms  red  and  white, 

O  men'ily  the  throstle  sings ! 
My  love  first  came  into  my  sight, 
O  perfect  vision  of  delight, 

O  the  glad  dove  has  golden  wings! 

The  yellow  apples  glowed  like  fire, 

O  merrily  the  throstle  sings ! 
O  Love  too  great  for  lip  or  lyre, 
Blown  rose  of  love  and  of  desire, 

O  the  glad  dove  has  golden  wings ! 

But  now  with  snow  the  tree  is  gi'ey, 

Ah,  sadly  now  the  throstle  sings ! 
My  love  is  dead :  ah !  well-a-day, 
See  at  her  silent  feet  I  lay 

A  dove  with  broken  wings ! 

Ah,  Love !  ah,  Love !  that  thou  wcrt  slain — 
Fond  Dove,  fond  Dove  return  again ! 

267 


268  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


AlfXivov  aTXivov  elizi  zb    I*    eu   vtxdTw 

OWELL  for  him  who  Hves  at  ease 
With  garnered  gold  in  wide  domain, 
Nor  heeds  the  splashing  of  the  rain, 
The  crashing  down  of  forest  trees. 

O  well  for  him  who  ne'er  hath  known 
The  travail  of  the  hungry  years, 
A  father  grey  with  grief  and  tears, 

A  mother  weeping  all  alone. 

But  well  for  him  whose  foot  hath  trod 
The  weary  road  of  toil  and  strife, 
Yet  from  the  son'ows  of  his  life 

Builds  ladders  to  be  nearer  God. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  269 


THE    TRUE    KNOWLEDGE 

Y.al    "zhv    [ikv    etvat    tov    8e    (jltj. 

THOU  knowcst  all;  I  seek  in  vain 
AVlial  L'uids  to  till  or  sow  with  seed- 
The  Liiul  is  black  with  brier  and  weed, 
Nor  cares  for  falHng  tears  or  rain. 

Thou  knowest  all ;  I  sit  and  wait 

With  blinded  eyes  and  hands  that  fail, 
Till  the  last  lifting  of  the  veil 

And  the  first  opening  of  the  gate. 

Thou  knowest  all ;  I  cannot  see. 
I  trust  I  shall  not  live  in  vain, 
I  know  that  we  shall  meet  again 

In  some  divine  eternity. 


270  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


LOTUS    LEAVES 

xXafetv    oq    xs    6dvf)at    ^poxiov    xal    xot^jlov    exi'axi), 
to0t6    vu    xal    yipaq    o!ov    6'tt,upoIat    ^poToIat 
X£(paa0a(  ts   x6[xt]v   ^aXeetv   t'    dxb    Bdy.pu   xapetoiv. 

THERE  is  no  peace  beneath  the  noon. 
Ah !  in  those  meadows  is  there  peace 
Where,  girdled  with  a  silver  fleece, 
As  a  bright  shepherd,  strays  the  moon? 

Queen  of  the  gardens  of  the  sky. 

Where  stars  like  lilies,  white  a^d  fair. 
Shine  through  the  mists  of  frosty  air, 

Oh,  tarry,  for  the  dawn  is  nigh! 

Oh,  tarry,  for  the  envious  day 

Stretches  long  hands  to  catch  thy  feet. 

Alas !  but  thou  art  overfleet, 
Alas !  I  know  thou  wilt  not  stay. 

Up  sprang  the  sun  to  run  his  race. 

The  breeze  blew  fair  on  meadow  and  lea ; 
But  in  the  west  I  seemed  to  see 

The  likeness  of  a  human  face. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  271 

A  linnet  on  the  hawtliorn  spray 
Sang  of  the  glories  of  the  spring, 
And  made  the  flow'ring  copses  ring 

With  gladness  for  the  new-boni  day. 

A  lark  from  out  the  grass  I  trod 

Flew  wildly,  and  was  lost  to  view 

In  the  great  seamless  veil  of  blue 
That  hangs  before  the  face  of  God. 

The  willow  whispered  overhead 
That  death  is  but  a  newer  life, 
And  that  with  idle  words  of  strife 

We  bring  dishonour  on  the  dead. 

I  took  a  branch  from  off  the  tree, 

And  hawthorn-blossoms  drenched  with  dew, 
I  bound  them  with  a  sprig  of  yew. 

And  made  a  garland  fair  to  see. 

I  laid  the  flowers  where  He  lies, 

(Warm  leaves  and  flowers  on  the  stone;) 
What  joy  I  had  to  sit  alone 

Till  evening  broke  on  tired  eyes: 

Till  all  the  shifting  clouds  had  spun 

A  robe  of  gold  for  God  to  wear. 

And  into  seas  of  purple  air 
Sank  the  bright  galley  of  the  sun. 


272  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 

Shall  I  be  gladdened  for  the  day, 
And  let  my  inner  heart  be  stirred 
By  murmuring  tree  or  song  of  bird, 

And  sorrow  at  the  wild  wind's  play  ? 

Not  so :  such  idle  dreams  belong 

To  souls  of  lesser  depth  than  mine; 
I  feel  that  I  am  half  divine ; 

I  know  that  I  am  great  and  strong. 

I  know  that  every  forest  tree 
By  labour  rises  from  the  root ; 
I  know  that  none  shall  gather  fruit 

By  sailing  on  the  barren  sea. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  21S 


WASTED    DAYS 

(from   a  picture  painted   by  miss   v.   t.) 

A  FAIR  slim  boy  not  made  for  this  world's  pain, 
With  hair  of  gold  thick  clustering  round  his  ears, 
And  longing  eyes  half  veiled  by  foolish  tears 
Like  bluest  water  seen  through  mists  of  rain ; 
Pale  cheeks  whereon  no  kiss  hath  left  its  stain, 

Red  under-lip  drawn  in  for  fear  of  Love, 
<     And  white  throat  whiter  than  the  breast  of  dove — 
Alas !  alas !  if  all  should  be  in  vain. 

Corn-fields  behind,  and  reapers  all  a-row 
In  weariest  labour,  toiling  wearily. 
To  no  sweet  sound  of  laughter,  or  of  lute; 

And  careless  of  the  crimson  sunset-glow 

The  boy  still  dreams :  nor  knows  that  night  is  nigh : 

And  in  the  night-time  no  man  gathers  fruit.  ^"^ 


274  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


IMPRESSIONS 

I 

LE    JARDIN 

THE  lily's  withered  chalice  falls 
Around  its  rod  of  dusty  gold, 
And  from  the  beech-trees  on  the  wold 
The  last  wood-pigeon  coos  and  calls. 

The  gaudy  leonine  sunflower 

Hangs  black  and  barren  on  its  stalk, 
And  down  the  windy  garden  walk 

The  dead  leaves  scatter, — hour  by  hour. 

Pale  privet-petals  white  as  milk 
Are  blown  into  a  snowy  mass : 
The  roses  lie  upon  the  grass 

Like  little  shreds  of  crimson  silk. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  275 


n 

LA    MER 

A  WHITE  mist  drifts  across  the  shrouds, 
A  wild  moon  in  this  wintry  sky 
Gleams  like  an  angry  lion's  eye 
Out  of  a  mane  of  tawny  clouds. 

The  muffled  steersman  at  the  wheel 
Is  but  a  shadow  in  the  gloom ; — 
And  in  the  throbbing  engine  room 

Leap  the  long  rods  of  polished  steel. 

The  shattered  storm  has  left  its  trace 
Upon  this  huge  and  heaving  dome, 
For  the  thin  threads  of  yellow  foam 

Float  on  the  waves  like  ravelled  lace. 


276  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


o 


UNDER    THE    BALCONY 

BEAUTIFUL  star  with  the  crimson  mouth! 
O  moon  with  the  brows  of  gold ! 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  from  the  odorous  south ! 
And  hght  for  my  iove  her  way. 
Lest  her  httle  feet  should  stray 
On  the  windy  hill  and  the  wold ! 
O  beautiful  star  with  the  crimson  mouth! 
O  moon  with  the  brows  of  gold ! 

O  ship  that  shakes  on  the  desolate  sea! 

O  ship  with  the  wet,  white  sail  I 
Put  in,  put  in,  to  the  port  to  me! 
For  my  love  and  I  would  go 
To  the  land  where  the  daffodils  blow 
In  the  heart  of  a  violet  dale ! 
O  ship  that  shakes  on  the  desolate  sea! 
O  ship  with  the  wet,  white  sail! 

O  rapturous  bird  with  the  low,  sweet  note ! 

O  bird  that  sings  on  the  spray ! 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  from  your  soft  brown  throat! 
And  my  love  in  her  little  bed 
Will  listen,  and  lift  her  head 
From  the  pillow,  and  come  my  way! 
O  rapturous  bird  w  ith  the  low,  sweet  note ! 
O  bird  that  sits  on  the  spray ! 


i 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  277 

O  blossom  that  hangs  in  the  tremulous  air! 

O  blossom  with  lips  of  snow ! 
Come  down,  come  down,  for  my  love  to  wear ! 
You  will  die  on  her  head  in  a  crown, 
You  will  die  in  a  fold  of  her  gown, 
To  her  little  light  heart  you  will  go! 
O  blossom  that  hangs  in  the  tremulous  air! 
O  blossom  with  lips  of  snow! 


278  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


THE    HARLOT'S    HOUSE 

WE  caught  the  tread  of  dancing  feet, 
We  loitered  down  the  moonht  street, 
And  stopped  beneath  the  harlot's  house. 

Inside,  above  the  din  and  fray, 
We  heard  the  loud  musicians  play 
The  "Treues  Liebes  Herz"  of  Strauss. 

Like  strange  mechanical  grotesques, 
Making  fantastic  arabesques. 
The  shadows  raced  across  the  blind. 

We  watched  the  ghostly  dancers  spin 

To  sound  of  horn  and  violin, 

Like  black  leaves  wheeling  in  the  wind. 

Like  wire-pulled  automatons. 

Slim  silhouetted  skeletons 

Went  sidling  through  the  slow  quadrille. 

They  took  each  other  by  the  hand. 
And  danced  a  stately  saraband; 
Their  laughter  echoed  thin  and  shrill. 

Sometimes  a  clockwork  puppet  pressed 
A  phantom  lover  to  her  breast, 
r       Sometimes  they  seemed  to  try  to  sing. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  279 

Sometimes  a  horrible  marionette 
Came  out,  and  smoked  its  cigarette 
Upon  the  steps  Hke  a  live  thing. 

Then,  turning  to  my  love,  I  said, 
"The  dead  are  dancing  with  the  dead, 
The  dust  is  whirling  with  the  dust." 

But  she — she  heard  the  violin, 
And  left  my  side,  and  entered  in : 
Love  passed  into  the  house  of  lust. 

Then  suddenly  the  tune  went  false. 
The  dancers  wearied  of  the  waltz, 
The  shadows  ceased  to  wheel  and  whirl. 

And  down  the  long  and  silent  street, 
The  dawn,  with  silver-sandalled  feet, 
Crept  like  a  frightened  girl. 


280  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


LE    JARDIN    DES    TUILERIES 

THIS  winter  air  is  keen  and  cold, 
And  keen  and  cold  this  winter  sun, 
But  round  my  chair  the  children  run 
Like  little  things  of  dancing  gold. 

Sometimes  about  the  painted  kiosk 
The  mimic  soldiers  strut  and  stride. 
Sometimes  the  blue-eyed  brigands  hide 

In  the  bleak  tangles  of  the  bosk. 

And  sometimes,  while  the  old  nurse  cons 
Her  book,  they  steal  across  the  square, 
And  launch  their  paper  navies  where 

Huge  Triton  writhes  in  greenish  bronze. 

And  now  in  mimic  flight  they  flee, 

And  now  they  rush,  a  boisterous  band — 
And,  tiny  hand  on  tiny  hand, 

Climb  up  the  black  and  leafless  tree. 

Ah !  cruel  tree !  if  I  were  you, 

And  children  climbed  me,  for  their  sake 
Though  it  be  winter  I  would  break 

Into  spring  blossoms  white  and  blue! 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  281 


ON    THE    RECENT    SALE    BY    AUCTION    OF 
KEATS'    LOVE    LETTERS 

nflPIESE  arc  the  letters  which  Endymlon  wrote 
^       To  one  lie  loved  in  secret,  and  apart. 
And  now  the  brawlers  of  the  auction  mart 

Bargain  and  bid  for  each  poor  blotted  note, 

Aye!  for  each  separate  pulse  of  passion  quote 
The  merchant's  price.    I  think  they  love  not  art 
Who  break  the  crystal  of  a  poet's  heart 

That  small  and  sickly  eyes  may  glare  and  gloat. 

Is  it  not  said  that  many  years  ago. 

In  a  far  Eastern  town,  some  soldiers  ran 
With  torches  through  the  midnight,  and  began 

To  wrangle  for  mean  raiment,  and  to  throw 
Dice  for  the  garments  of  a  wretched  man, 

Not  knowing  the  God's  wonder,  or  His  woe.'* 


282  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


THE    NEW    REMORSE 

THE  sin  was  mine ;  I  did  not  understand. 
So  now  is  music  prisoned  in  her  cave, 

Save  where  some  ebbing  desultory  wave 
Frets  with  its  restless  whirls  this  meagre  strand. 
And  in  the  withered  hollow  of  this  land 

Hath  summer  dug  herself  so  deep  a  grave, 

That  hardly  can  the  leaden  willow  crave 
One  silver  blossom  from  keen  winter's  hand. 
But  who  is  this  who  cometh  by  the  shore? 
(Nay,  love,  look  up  and  wonder!)  Who  is  this 

Who  cometh  in  dyed  garments  from  the  South? 
It  is  thy  new-found  Lord,  and  he  shall  kiss 

The  yet  unravished  roses  of  thy  mouth, 
And  I  shall  weep  and  worship,  as  before. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  283 


FANTAISIES     DECORATIVES 

I 
LE    PANNEAU 

UNDER  the  rose-tree's  dancing  shade 
There  stands  a  little  ivory  girl, 
Pulling  the  leaves  of  pink  and  pearl 
With  pale  green  nails  of  polished  jade. 

The  red  leaves  fall  upon  the  mould. 
The  white  leaves  flutter,  one  by  one, 
Down  to  a  blue  bowl  where  the  sun, 

Like  a  great  dragon,  writhes  in  gold. 

The  white  leaves  float  upon  the  air. 
The  red  leaves  flutter  idly  down, 
'  Some  fall  upon  her  yellow  gown, 
And  some  upon  her  raven  hair. 

She  takes  an  amber  lute  and  sings, 
And  as  she  sings  a  silver  crane 
Begins  his  scarlet  neck  to  strain. 

And  flap  his  burnished  metal  wings. 


284  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 

She  takes  a  lute  of  amber  bright, 
And  from  the  thicket  where  he  lies 
Her  lover,  with  his  almond  eyes, 

Watches  her  movements  in  delight. 

And  now  she  gives  a  cry  of  fear, 
And  tiny  tears  begin  to  start ; 
A  thorn  has  wounded  with  its  dart 

The  pink-veined  sea-shell  of  her  ear. 

And  now  she  laughs  a  merry  note : 
There  has  fallen  a  petal  of  the  rose 
Just  where  the  yellow  satin  shows 

The  blue-veined  flower  of  her  throat. 

With  pale  green  nails  of  polished  jade, 
Pulling  the  leaves  of  pink  and  pearl. 
There  stands  a  little  ivory  girl 

Under  the  rose-tree's  dancing  shade. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  28 S 

II 

LES    BALLONS 

AGAINST  these  turbid  turquoise  skies 
The  light  and  luminous  balloons 
Dip  and  drift  like  satin  moons, 
Drift  like  silken  butterflies; 

Reel  with  every  v/indy  gust, 

Rise  and  reel  like  dancing  girls, 
Float  like  strange  transparent  pearls, 

Fall  and  float  like  silver  dust. 

Now  to  the  low  leaves  they  cling, 

Each  with  coy  fantastic  pose. 

Each  a  petal  of  a  rose 
Straining  at  a  gossamer  string. 

Then  to  the  tall  trees  they  climb. 

Like  thin  globes  of  amethyst. 

Wandering  opals  keey)Ing  tryst 
With  the  rubies  of  the  lime. 


286  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


CANZONET 


T    HAVE  no  store 

-^      Of  gryphon-guarded  gold; 

Now,  as  before, 
Bare  is  the  shepherd's  fold. 

Rubies,  nor  pearls. 
Have  I  to  gem  thy  throat; 

Yet  woodland  girls 
Have  loved  the  shepherd's  note. 

Then,  pluck  a  reed 
And  bid  me  sing  to  thee, 

For  I  would  feed 
Thine  ears  with  melody. 

Who  art  more  fair 
Than  fairest  fleur-de-lys. 

More  sweet  and  rare 
Than  sweetest  ambergris. 

What  dost  thou  fear.^ 
Young  Hyacinth  is  slain. 

Pan  is  not  here. 
And  will  not  come  again. 

No  horned  Faun 
Treads  down  the  yellow  leas. 

No  God  at  dawn 
Steals  through  the  olive-trees. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  287 

Hylas  is  dead, 
Nor  will  he  e'er  divine 

Those  little  red 
Rose-petallcd  lips  of  thine. 

On  the  high  hill 
No  ivory  dryads  play, 

Silver  and  still 
Sinks  the  sad  autumn  day. 


288  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 


SYMPHONY    IN    YELLOW 

^'^/^N  ^  '^'      A  N  omnibus  across  the  bridge 

■^^^     Crawls  like  a  yellow  butterfly, 

And,  here  and  there,  a  passer-by 
Shows  like  a  little  restless  midge. 

Big  barges  full  of  yellow  hay 

Are  moved  against  the  shadowy  wharf. 
And,  like  a  yellow  silken  scarf. 

The  thick  fog  hangs  along  the  quay. 

The  yellow  leaves  begin  to  fade 

And  flutter  from  the  Temple  elms. 
And  at  my  feet  the  pale  green  Thames 

Lies  like  a  rod  of  rippled  jade. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  289 


IN    THE    FOREST 

Ol'T  of  the  mid-wood's  twilight 
Into  the  meadow's  dawn, 
Ivory  Hmbed  and  brown-eyed, 
Flashes  my  Faun ! 

He  skips  through  the  copses  singing. 
And  his  shadow  dances  along. 

And  I  know  not  which  I  should  follow. 
Shadow  or  songl 

O  Hunter,  snare  me  his  shadow ! 

0  Nightingale,  catch  me  his  strain ! 
Else  moonsti-uck  with  music  and  madness 

1  track  him  in  vain ! 


290  UNCOLLECTED   POEMS 


WITH    A    COPY    OF    "A    HOUSE    OF 
POMEGRANATES" 

GO,  little  book, 
To  him  who,  on  a  lute  with  horns  of  pearl, 
Sang  of  the  white  feet  of  the  Golden  Girl: 
And  bid  him  look 

Into  thy  pages :  it  may  hap  that  he 
May  find  that  golden  maidens  dance  through  thee. 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  291 


TO   L.    L. 

COL^LD  we  dig  up  this  long-buried  treasure, 
Were  it  worth  the  pleasure, 
We  never  could  learn  love's  song, 
We  are  parted  too  long. 

Could  the  passionate  past  that  is  fled 

Call  back  its  dead, 
Could  we  live  it  all  over  again. 

Were  it  worth  the  pain ! 

I  remember  we  used  to  meet 

By  an  ivied  seat. 
And  you  warbled  each  pretty  word 

With  the  air  of  a  bird ; 

And  3'our  voice  had  a  quaver  in  it. 

Just  like  a  linnet. 
And  shook,  as  the  blackbird's  throat 

With  its  last  big  note; 

And  your  eyes,  they  were  green  and  grey 

Like  an  April  day. 
But  lit  into  amethyst 

When  I  stooped  and  kissed ; 


292  UNCOLLECTED    POEMS 

And  your  mouth,  it  would  never  smile 

For  a  long,  long  while, 
Then  it  rippled  all  over  with  laughter 

Five  minutes  after. 

You  were  always  afraid  of  a  shower, 

Just  like  a  flower : 
I  remember  j^ou  started  and  ran 

When  the  rain  began. 

I  remember  I  never  could  catch  you. 
For  no  one  could  match  you, 

You  had  wonderful,  luminous,  fleet, 
Little  wings  to  your  feet. 

I  remember  your  hair — did  I  tie  it.'' 

For  it  alwaj^s  ran  riot- 
Like  a  tangled  sunbeam  of  gold: 
These  things  are  old. 

I  remember  so  well  the  room. 

And  the  lilac  bloom 
That  beat  at  the  dripping  pane 

In  the  warm  June  rain ; 

And  the  colour  of  your  gown, 

It  was  amber-brown, 
And  two  yellow  satin  bows 

From  your  shoulders  rose. 


I 


UNCOLLECTED    POEMS  293 

And  the  handkercliief  of  French  lace 

Which  you  held  to  your  face — 
Had  a  small  tear  left  a  stain? 

Or  was  it  the  rain? 

On  your  hand  as  it  waved  adieu, 

There  were  veins  of  blue ; 
In  your  voice  as  it  said  good-bye 

Was  a  petulant  cry, 


iiV 


You  have  only  wasted  your  life." 
(Ah,  that  was  the  knife!) 
When  I  rushed  through  the  garden  gate 
It  was  all  too  late. 

Could  we  live  it  over  again, 

Were  it  worth  the  pain. 
Could  the  passionate  past  that  is  fled 

Call  back  its  dead  I 

Well,  if  my  heart  must  break. 

Dear  love,  for  your  sake, 
It  will  break  in  music,  I  know. 

Poets'  hearts  break  so. 

But  strange  that  I  was  not  told 

That  the  brain  can  hold 
In  a  tiny  ivory  cell 

God's  heaven  and  hell. 


i 


POEMS    IN    PROSE 


1 


THE    ARTIST 

ONE  evening  there  came  into  his  soul  the  desire  to 
fashion  an  image  of  The  Pleasure  that  abideth  for 
a  Momcni.  And  he  went  forth  into  the  world  to  look 
for  bronze.     For  lie  could  only  think  in  bronze. 

But  all  the  bronze  of  the  whole  world  had  disap- 
peared, nor  anywhere  in  the  whole  world  was  there  any 
bronze  to  be  found,  save  only  the  bronze  of  the  image  of 
The  Sorrow  that  endureth  for  Ever. 

Now  this  image  he  had  himself,  and  with  his  own 
hands,  fashioned,  and  had  set  it  on  the  tomb  of  the  one 
thing  he  had  loved  in  life.  On  the  tomb  of  the  dead 
thing  he  had  most  loved  had  he  set  this  image  of  his 
own  fashioning,  that  it  might  serve  as  a  sign  of  the  love 
of  man  that  dieth  not,  and  a  symbol  of  the  sorrow  of  man 
that  endureth  for  ever.  And  in  the  whole  world  there 
was  no  other  bronze  save  the  bronze  of  this  image. 

And  he  took  the  image  he  had  fashioned,  and  set  it  in 
a  great  furnace,  and  gave  it  to  the  fire. 

And  out  of  the  bronze  of  the  image  of  The  Sorrow  that 
endureth  for  Ever  he  fashioned  an  image  of  The  Pleas- 
ure that  abideth  for  a  Moment. 


297 


298  POEMS   IN    PROSE 


n 

THE    DOER    OF    GOOD 

T  T  was  night-time  and  He  was  alone. 

-^      And  He  saw  afar-off  the  walls  of  a  round  city  and 

went  towards  the  city. 

And  when  He  came  near  He  heard  within  the  city  the 
tread  of  the  feet  of  joy,  and  the  laughter  of  the  mouth 
of  gladness  and  the  loud  noise  of  many  lutes.  And  He 
knocked  at  the  gate  and  certain  of  the  gate-keepers 
opened  to  him. 

And  He  beheld  a  house  that  was  of  marble  and  had 
fair  pillars  of  marble  before  it.  The  pillars  were  hung 
with  garlands,  and  within  and  without  there  were  torches 
of  cedar.     And  He  entered  the  house. 

And  when  He  had  passed  through  the  hall  of  chalce- 
dony and  the  hall  of  jasper,  and  reached  the  long  hall  of 
feasting.  He  saw  lying  on  a  couch  of  sea-purple  one 
whose  hair  was  crowned  with  red  roses  and  whose  lips 
were  red  with  wine. 

And  He  went  behind  him  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said  to  him,  "Why  do  you  live  like  this?" 

And  the  young  man  turned  round  and  recognised 
Him,  and  made  answer  and  said,  "But  I  was  a  leper  once, 
and  you  healed  me.     How  else  should  I  live.?" 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  299 

And  He  passed  out  of  the  liouso  and  went  again  into 
the  street. 

And  after  a  little  while  He  saw  one  whose  face  and 
raiment  were  painted  and  whose  feet  were  sliod  with 
pearls.  And  behind  her  came,  slowly  as  a  hunter,  a 
young  man  who  wore  a  cloak  of  two  colours.  Now  the 
face  of  the  woman  was  as  the  fair  face  of  an  idol,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  young  man  were  bright  with  lust. 

And  He  followed  swiftly  and  touched  the  hand  of  the 
young  man  and  said  to  him,  "Why  do  you  look  at  this 
woman  and  in  such  wise?" 

And  the  young  man  turned  round  and  recognised  Him 
and  said,  "But  I  was  blind  once,  and  you  gave  me  sight. 
At  what  else  should  I  look?" 

And  He  ran  forward  and  touched  the  painted  raiment 
of  the  woman  and  said  to  her,  "Is  there  no  other  way  in 
which  to  walk  save  the  way  of  sin?" 

And  the  woman  turned  round  and  recognised  Him, 
and  laughed  and  said,  "But  you  forgave  me  my  sins,  and 
the  way  is  a  pleasant  way." 

And  He  passed  out  of  the  cit^'. 

And  when  He  had  passed  out  of  the  cit}-  He  saw 
seated  by  the  roadside  a  young  man  who  was  weeping. 

And  He  went  towards  him  and  touched  the  long  locks 
of  his  hair  and  said  to  him,  "Why  are  you  weeping?" 

And  the  young  man  looked  up  and  recognised  Him 
and  made  answer,  "But  I  was  dead  once  and  you  raised 
me  from  the  dead.     What  else  should  I  tlo  but  weep?" 


300  POEMS    IN    PROSE 

III 
THE    DISCIPLE 

WHEN  Narcissus  died  the  pool  of  his  pleasure 
changed  from  a  cup  of  sweet  waters  into  a  cup 
of  salt  tears,  and  the  Oreads  came  weeping  through  the 
woodland  that  they  might  sing  to  the  pool  and  give  it 
comfort. 

And  when  they  saw  that  the  pool  had  changed  from  a 
cup  of  sweet  waters  into  a  cup  of  salt  tears,  they  loos- 
ened the  green  tresses  of  their  hair  and  cri^d  to  the  pool 
and  said,  "We  do  not  wonder  that  you  should  mourn  in 
this  manner  for  Narcissus,  so  beautiful  was  he." 

"But  was  Narcissus  beautiful?"  said  the  pool. 

"Who  should  know  that  better  than  you?"  answered 
the  Oreads.  "Us  did  he  ever  pass  by,  but  you  he  sought 
for,  and  would  lie  on  your  banks  and  look  down  at  you, 
and  in  the  mirror  of  your  waters  he  would  mirror  his 
own  beauty." 

And  the  pool  answered,  "But  I  loved  Narcissus  be- 
cause, as  he  lay  on  my  banks  and  looked  down  at  me, 
in  the  mirror  of  his  eyes  I  saw  ever  my  own  beauty 
mirrored." 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  301 


IV 

THE    MASTER 

XT  OW  when  the  darkness  came  over  the  earth  Joseph 
-^  ^  of  Arimathea,  having  lighted  a  torch  of  pinewood, 
passed  down  from  the  hill  into  the  valley.  For  he  had 
business  in  his  own  home. 

And  kneeling  on  the  flint  stones  of  the  Valley  of  Deso- 
lation he  saw  a  young  man  who  was  naked  and  weeping. 
His  hair  was  the  colour  of  honey,  and  his  body  was  as  a 
white  flower,  but  he  had  wounded  his  body  with  thorns 
and  on  his  hair  had  he  set  ashes  as  a  crown. 

And  he  who  had  great  possessions  said  to  the  young 
man  who  was  naked  and  weeping,  "I  do  not  wonder  that 
your  sorrow  is  so  great,  for  surely  He  was  a  just  man." 

And  the  young  man  answered,  "It  is  not  for  Him  that 
I  am  weeping,  but  for  myself.  I  too  have  changed  water 
Into  wine,  and  I  have  healed  the  leper  and  given  sight  to 
the  blind.  I  have  walked  upon  the  waters,  and  from  the 
dwellers  in  the  tombs  I  have  cast  out  devils.  I  have  fed 
the  hungry  in  the  desert  where  there  was  no  food,  and  I 
have  raised  the  dead  from  their  narrow  houses,  and  at  my 
bidding,  and  before  a  great  multitude  of  people,  a  barren 
fig-tree  withered  away.  All  things  that  this  man  has 
done  I  have  done  also.     And  yet  they  have  not  ci-ucified 


302  POEMS   IN    PROSE 


THE    HOUSE    OF    JUDGMENT 

AND  there  was  silence  in  the  House  of  Judgment, 
and  the  Man  came  naked  before  God. 

And  God  opened  the  Book  of  the  Life  of  the  Man. 

And  God  said  to  the  Man,  "Thy  life  hath  been  evil, 
and  thou  hast  shown  cruelty  to  those  who  were  in  need 
of  succour,  and  to  those  who  lacked  help  thou  hast  been 
bitter  and  hard  of  heart.  The  poor  called  to  thee  and 
thou  did'st  not  hearken,  and  thine  ears  were  closed  to 
the  cry  of  My  afflicted.  The  inheritance  of  the  father- 
less thou  did'st  take  unto  thyself,  and  thou  did'st  send 
the  foxes  into  the  vineyard  of  thy  neighbour's  field. 
Thou  did'st  take  the  bread  of  the  children  and  give  it  to 
the  dogs  to  eat,  and  my  lepers  who  lived  in  the  marshes, 
and  were  at  peace  and  praised  Me,  thou  did'st  drive 
forth  on  to  the  highways,  and  on  Mine  earth  out  of 
which  I  made  thee  thou  did'st  spill  innocent  blood." 

And  the  Man  made  answer  and  said,  "Even  so  did  I." 

And  again  God  opened  the  Book  of  the  Life  of  the 
Man. 

And  God  said  to  the  Man,  "Thy  life  hath  been  evil, 
and  the  Beauty  I  have  shown  thou  hast  sought  for,  and 
the  Good  I  have  hidden  thou  did'st  pass  by.  The  walls 
of  thy  chamber  were  painted  with  images,  and  from  the 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  303 

bed  of  thine  aboniiiuitions  thou  did'st  rise  up  to  tlie 
sound  of  flutes.  Thou  did'st  build  seven  altars  to  the 
sins  I  have  suffered,  and  did'st  eat  of  the  thing  that  may 
not  be  eaten,  and  the  purple  of  thy  raiment  was  broid- 
ered  with  the  three  signs  of  shame.  Thine  idols  were 
neither  of  gold  nor  of  silver  that  endure,  but  of  flesh  that 
dieth.  Thou  did'st  stain  their  hair  with  })erfumes  and 
put  pomegranates  in  their  hands.  Thou  did'st  stain 
their  feet  with  saffron  and  spread  carpets  before  them. 
With  antimony  thou  did'st  stain  their  eyelidsjand  their 
bodies  thou  didst  smear  with  myrrh.  Thou  did'st  bow 
thyself  to  the  ground  before  them,  and  the  thrones  of 
thine  idols  were  set  in  the  sun.  Thou  did'st  show  to 
the  sun  thy  shame  and  to  the  moon  thy  madness." 

And  the  Man  made  answer  and  said,  "Even  so  did  I." 
And  a  third  time  God  opened  the  Book  of  the  Life  of 
the  Man. 

And  God  said  to  the  INIan,  "Evil  hath  been  thy  life, 
and  with  evil  did'st  thou  requite  good,  and  with  wrong- 
doing kindness.  The  hands  that  fed  thee  thou  did'st 
wound,  and  tlic  breasts  that  gave  thee  suck  thou  did'st 
despise.  He  who  came  to  thee  with  water  went  away 
thirsting,  and  the  outlawed  men  who  liid  thee  in  their 
tents  at  night  thou  did'st  betray  before  dawn.  Thine 
enemy  who  spared  thee  thou  did'st  snare  in  an  ambush, 
and  the  friend  who  walked  with  thee  thou  did'st  sell  for 
a  price,  and  to  those  who  brought  thee  Love  thou  did'st 
ever  give  Lust  in  thy  tuni." 

And  the  Man  made  answer  and  said,  "Even  so  did  I." 
And  God  closed  the  Book  of  the  Life  of  the  Man,  and 


304  POEMS    IN    PROSE 

said,  "Surely  I  will  send  thee  into  Hell.  Even  into  Hell 
will  I  send  thee." 

And  the  Man  cried  out,  "Thou  canst  not." 

And  God  said  to  the  Man,  "Wherefore  can  I  not  send 
thee  to  Hell,  and  for  what  reason?" 

"Because  in  Hell  have  I  always  lived,"  answered  the 
Man. 

And  there  was  silence  in  the  House  of  Judgment. 

And  after  a  space  God  spake,  and  said  to  the  Man, 
"Seeing  that  I  may  not  send  thee  into  Hell,  surely  I  will 
send  thee  unto  Heaven.  Even  unto  Heaven  will  I  send 
thee." 

And  the  Man  cried  out,  "Thou  canst  not." 

And  God  said  to  the  Man,  "Wherefore  can  I  not  send 
thee  unto  Heaven,  and  for  what  reason?" 

"Because  never,  and  in  no  place,  have  I  been  able  to 
imagine  it,"  answered  the  Man. 

And  there  was  silence  in  the  House  of  Judgment. 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  30S 

VI 
THE    TEACHER    OF    WISDOM 

FROM  his  childhood  he  had  been  as  one  filled  with 
the  perfect  knowledge  of  God,  and  even  while  he 
was  yet  but  a  lad  many  of  the  saints,  as  well  as  certain 
holy  women  who  dwelt  in  the  free  city  of  his  birth,  had 
been  stirred  to  much  wonder  by  the  grave  wisdom  of  his 
answers. 

And  when  his  parents  had  given  him  the  robe  and  the 
ring  of  manhood  he  kissed  them,  and  left  them  and  went 
out  into  the  world,  that  he  might  speak  to  the  world 
about  God.  For  there  were  at  that  time  many  in  the 
world  who  either  knew  not  God  at  all,  or  had  but  an 
incomplete  knowledge  of  Him,  or  worshipped  the  false 
gods  who  dwell  in  groves  and  have  no  care  of  their 
worshippers. 

And  he  set  his  face  to  the  sun  and  journeyed,  walking 
without  sandals,  as  he  had  seen  the  saints  walk,  and 
carrying  at  his  girdle  a  leathern  wallet  and  a  little 
water-bottle  of  burnt  clay. 

And  as  he  walked  along  the  highway  he  was  full  of  the 
joy  that  comes  from  the  perfect  knowledge  of  God,  and 
he  sang  praises  unto  God  without  ceasing;  and  after  a 
time  he  reached  a  strange  land  in  which  there  were  many 
cities. 

And  he  passed  through  eleven  cities.     And  some  of 


306  POEMS    IN    PROSE 

these  cities  were  in  valleys,  and  others  were  by  the  banks 
of  great  rivers,  and  others  were  set  on  hills.  And  in 
each  city  he  found  a  disciple  who  loved  him  and  followed 
him,  and  a  great  multitude  also  of  people  followed  him 
from  each  city,  and  the  knowledge  of  God  spread  in  the 
whole  land,  and  many  of  the  inilers  were  converted,  and 
the  priests  of  the  temples  in  which  there  were  idols  found 
that  half  of  their  gain  was  gone,  and  when  they  beat 
upon  their  drums  at  noon  none,  or  but  a  few,  came  with 
peacocks  and  with  offerings  of  flesh  as  had  been  the 
custom  of  the  land  before  his  coming. 

Yet  the  more  the  people  followed  him,  and  the  greater 
the  number  of  his  disciples,  the  greater  became  his  sor- 
row. And  he  knew  not  why  his  sorrow  was  so  great. 
For  he  spake  ever  about  God,  and  out  of  the  fulness  of 
that  perfect  knowledge  of  God  which  God  had  himself 
given  to  him. 

And  one  evening  he  passed  out  of  the  eleventh  city, 
which  was  a  city  of  Armenia,  and  his  disciples  and  a 
great  crowd  of  people  followed  after  him ;  and  he  went 
up  on  to  a  mountain  and  sat  down  on  a  rock  that  was  on 
the  mountain,  and  his  disciples  stood  round  him,  and  the 
multitude  knelt  in  the  valley. 

And  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands  and  wept,  and 
said  to  his  Soul,  "Why  is  it  that  I  am  full  of  sorrow  and 
fear,  and  that  each  of  my  disciples  is  as  an  enemy  that 
walks  in  the  noonday.^" 

And  his  Soul  answered  him  and  said,  "God  filled  thee 
with  the  perfect  knowledge  of  Himself,  and  thou  hast 
given  this  knowledge  away  to  others.    The  pearl  of  great 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  307 

price  tliou  liast  divided,  and  the  vesture  without  seam 
thou  hast  {)arted  asunder.  He  who  <i;iveth  away  wis(h)in 
rohheth  himself.  He  is  as  one  who  giveth  his  treasure 
to  a  rohher.  Is  not  God  wiser  than  thou  art?  Who  art 
thou  to  give  aw^ay  the  secret  that  God  hath  told  thee?  I 
was  rich  once,  and  thou  hast  made  me  poor.  Once  I  saw 
God,  and  now  thou  hast  hidden  Him  from  me." 

x\nd  he  wept  again,  for  he  knew  tliat  his  Soul  spake 
truth  to  him,  and  that  l.e  had  given  to  others  the  perfect 
knowledge  of  God,  and  that  he  was  as  one  clinging  to  the 
skirts  of  God,  and  that  his  faith  was  leaving  him  by  rea- 
son of  the  number  of  those  who  believed  in  him. 

And  he  said  to  himself,  "I  will  talk  no  more  about 
God.     He  who  giveth  away  wisdom  robbeth  himself." 

And  after  the  space  of  some  hours  his  disciples  came 
near  him  and  bowed  themselves  to  the  ground  and  said, 
"Master,  talk  to  us  about  God,  for  thou  hast  the  perfect 
knowledge  of  God,  and  no  man  save  thee  hath  this 
knowledge." 

And  he  answered  them  and  said,  "I  will  talk  to  you 
about  all  other  things  that  are  in  heaven  and  on  earth, 
but  about  God  I  will  not  talk  to  you.  Neither  now,  nor 
at  any  time,  will  I  talk  to  you  about  God." 

And  they  were  wroth  v,  ith  him  and  said  to  him,  "Thou 
hast  led  us  into  the  desert  that  we  might  hearken  to  thee. 
Wilt  thou  send  us  away  hungry,  and  the  great  multitude 
that  thou  hast  made  to  follow  thee?" 

And  he  answered  them  and  said,  "I  will  not  talk  to  you 
about  God." 

And  the  multitude  murmured  against  him  and  said  to 


308  POEMS    IN    PROSE 

him,  "Thou  hast  led  us  into  the  desert,  and  hast  given  us 
no  food  to  eat.  Talk  to  us  about  God  and  it  will  suffice 
us." 

But  he  answered  them  not  a  word.  For  he  knew  that 
if  he  spake  to  them  about  God  he  would  give  away  his 
treasure. 

And  his  disciples  went  away  sadly,  and  the  multitude 
of  people  returned  to  their  own  homes.  And  many  died 
on  the  way. 

And  when  he  was  alone  he  rose  up  and  set  his  face  to 
the  moon,  and  journeyed  for  seven  moons,  speaking  to  no 
man  nor  making  any  answer.  And  when  the  seventh 
moon  had  waned  he  reached  that  desert  which  is  the 
desert  of  the  Great  River.  And  having  found  a  cavern 
in  which  a  Centaur  had  once  dwelt,  he  took  it  for  his 
place  of  dwelling,  and  made  himself  a  mat  of  reeds  on 
which  to  lie,  and  became  a  hermit.  And  every  hour  the 
Hermit  praised  God  that  He  had  suffered  him  to  keep 
some  knowledge  of  Him  and  of  His  wonderful  greatness. 

Now,  one  evening,  as  the  Hermit  was  seated  before  the 
cavern  in  which  he  had  made  his  place  of  dwelling,  he 
beheld  a  young  man  of  evil  and  beautiful  face  who  passed 
by  in  mean  apparel  and  with  empty  hands.  Every  eveii- 
ing  with  empty  hands  the  young  man  passed  by,  and 
every  morning  he  returned  with  his  hands  full  of  purple 
and  pearls.  For  he  was  a  Robber  and  robbed  the  cara- 
vans of  the  merchants. 

And  the  Hermit  looked  at  him  and  pitied  him.  But  he 
spake  not  a  word.  For  he  knew  that  he  who  speaks  a 
word  loses  his   faith. 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  309 

And  one  morning,  as  the  young  man  returned  with  his 
hands  full  of  purple  and  pearls,  he  stopped  and  frowned 
and  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  sand,  and  said  to  the 
Hermit :  ''Why  do  you  look  at  me  ever  in  this  manner  as 
I  pass  by?  What  is  it  that  I  see  in  your  eyes?  For  no 
man  has  looked  at  me  before  in  this  manner.  And  the 
thing  is  a  thorn  and  a  trouble  to  me." 

And  the  Hermit  answered  him  and  said,  "What  you 
see  in  my  eyes  is  pity.  Pity  is  what  looks  out  at  you 
from  my  eyes." 

And  the  young  man  laughed  with  scorn,  and  cried  to 
the  Hermit  in  a  bitter  voice,  and  said  to  him,  "I  have 
purple  and  pearls  in  my  hands,  and  you  have  but  a  mat 
of  reeds  on  which  to  He.  What  pity  should  you  have  for 
me?     And  for  what  reason  have  you  this  pity?" 

"I  have  pity  for  you,"  said  the  Hermit,  -'because  you 
hare  no  knowledge  of  God." 

"Is  this  knowledge  of  God  a  precious  thing?"  asked 
the  young  man,  and  he  came  close  to  the  mouth  of  the 
cavern. 

"It  is  more  precious  than  all  the  purple  and  the  pearls 
of  the  world,"  answered  the  Hennit. 

"And  have  you  got  it?"  said  the  young  Robber  and 
he  came  closer  still. 

"Once,  indeed,"  answered  the  Hermit,  "I  possessed 
the  perfect  knowledge  of  God.  But  in  my  foolishness  I 
parted  with  it,  and  divided  it  amongst  others.  Yet  even 
now  is  such  knowledge  as  remains  to  me  more  precious 
than  pui*ple  or  pearls." 

And  when  the  young  Robber  heard  this  he  threw  away 


310  POEMS    IN    PROSE 

the  purple  and  the  pearls  that  he  was  bearing  in  his 
hands,  and  drawing  a  sharp  sword  of  curved  steel  he  said 
to  the  Hermit,  "Give  me,  forthwith,  this  knowledge  of 
God  that  you  possess,  or  I  will  surely  slay  you.  Where- 
fore should  I  not  slay  him  who  has  a  treasure  greater 
than  my  treasure?" 

And  the  Hermit  spread  out  his  arms  and  said,  "Were 
it  not  better  for  me  to  go  unto  the  outermost  courts  of 
God  and  praise  Him,  than  to  live  in  the  world  and  have 
no  knowledge  of  Him?  Slay  me  if  that  be  your  desire. 
But  I  will  not  give  away  my  knowledge  of  God." 

And  the  young  Robber  knelt  down  and  besought  him, 
but  the  Hermit  would  not  talk  to  him  about  God,  nor 
give  him  his  Treasure,  and  the  young  Robber  rose  up 
and  said  to  the  Hermit,  "Be  it  as  you  will.  As  for  my- 
self, I  will  go  to  the  City  of  the  Seven  Sins,  that  is  but 
three  days'  journey  from  this  place,  and  for  my  purple 
they  will  give  me  pleasure,  and  for  my  pearls  they  will 
sell  me  joy."  And  he  took  up  the  purple  and  the  pearls 
and  went  swiftly  away. 

And  the  Hermit  cried  out  and  followed  him  and  be- 
sought him.  For  the  space  of  three  days  he  followed  the 
young  Robber  on  the  road  and  entreated  him  to  return, 
nor  to  enter  into  the  City  of  the  Seven  Sins. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  young  Robber  looked  back  at 
the  Hermit  and  called  to  him,  and  said,  "Will  you  give 
me  this  knowledge  of  God  which  is  more  precious  than 
purple  and  pearls?  If  you  will  give  me  that,  I  will  not 
enter  the  city." 

And  ever  did  th.e  Hermit  answer,  "All  things  that  I 


POEMS    IN    PROSE  311 

have  I  will  give  tlioe,  save  that  one  thing  only.  For  that 
thing  it  is  not  lawful  for  me  to  give  away." 

And  in  the  twilight  of  the  third  day  they  came  nigh 
to  the  great  scarlet  gates  of  the  City  of  the  Seven  Sins. 
And  from  the  city  there  came  the  sound  of  nmch 
laughter. 

And  the  3'oung  Robber  laughed  in  answer,  and  sought 
to  knock  at  the  gate.  And  as  he  did  so  the  Hermit  ran 
forward  and  caught  him  by  the  skirts  of  his  raiment,  and 
said  to  him :  "Stretch  forth  your  hands,  and  set  your 
arms  around  my  neck,  and  put  your  ear  close  to  my  lips, 
and  I  will  give  you  what  remains  to  me  of  the  knowledge 
of  God."     And  the  young  Robber  stopped. 

And  when  the  Hermit  had  given  away  his  knowledge 
of  God,  he  fell  upon  the  ground  and  wept,,  and  a  great 
darkness  hid  from  him  the  city  and  the  young  Robber,  so 
that  he  saw  them  no  more. 

And  as  he  lay  there  weeping  he  was  ware  of  One  who 
was  standing  beside  him ;  and  He  who  was  standing  be- 
side him  had  feet  of  brass  and  hair  like  fine  wool.  And 
He  raised  the  Hermit  up,  and  said  to  him :  "Before  this 
time  thou  had'st  the  perfect  knowledge  of  God.  Now 
thou  shalt  have  the  perfect  love  of  God.  Wherefore  art 
thou  weeping.''"     And  He  kissed  liim. 


TRANSLATIONS 


CHORUS  OF  CLOUD  MAIDENS 

(•AptaTO?(ivouq  Ne9aat,   275-290,  298-313) 
2TP0<I>H 

CLOUD  maidens  that  float  on  for  ever, 
Dew-sprinkled,  fleet  bodies,  and  fair, 
Let  us  rise  from  our  Sire's  loud  river, 
Great  Ocean,  and  soar  through  the  air 
To  the  peaks  of  the  pine-covered  mountains  where 
the  pines  hang  as  tresses  of  hair. 
Let  us  seek  the  watch-towers  undaunted, 

Where  the  well- watered  corn-fields  abound, 
And  through  murmurs  of  rivers  nvmph-haunted 
The  songs  of  the  sea-waves  resound ; 
And  the  sun  in  the  sky  never  wearies  of  spreading 
his  radiance  around. 

Let  us  cast  off  the  liaze 

Of  the  mists  from  our  band, 
Till  with  far-seeing  gaze 
We  may  look  on  the  land. 


315 


316  TRANSLATIONS 


ANTI2TP04>H 

Cloud  maidens  that  bring  the  rain-shower, 

To  the  Pallas-loved  land  let  us  wing, 
To  the  land  of  stout  heroes  and  Power, 

Where  Kekrops  was  hero  and  king. 
Where  honour  and  silence  is  given 

To  the  mysteries  that  none  may  declare. 
Where  are  gifts  to  the  high  gods  in  heaven 

When  the  house  of  the  gods  is  laid  bare. 
Where  are  lofty  roofed  temples,  and  statues  well 
carven  and  fair; 

Where  are  feasts  to  the  happy  immortals 
When  the  sacred  procession  draws  near, 

Where  garlands  make  bright  the  bright  portals 
At  all  seasons  and  months  in  the  year; 

And  when  spring  days  are  here. 
Then  we  tread  to  the  wine-god  a  measure. 

In  Bacchanal  dance  and  in  pleasure, 
'Mid  the  contests  of  sweet  singing  choirs, 

And  the  crash  of  loud  lyres. 


TRANSLATIONS  317 

0PHNQIAIA 

(Eur.    Hec,   444-483) 

Song  sung  by  captive  women  of  Troy  on  the  sea  beach  at  Aulis, 
while  the  Achaeans  were  there  storm-bound  through  the  wrath  of 
dishonoured  Achilles,  and  waiting  for  a  fair  wind  to  bring  them 
home. 


o 


2TP04>H 

FAIR  wind  blowing  from  the  sea ! 
Who  through  the  dark  and  mist  dost  guide 
The  ships  that  on  the  billows  ride, 

Unto  what  land,  ah,  misery ! 
Shall  I  be  borne,  across  what  stormy  wave. 
Or  to  whose  house  a  purchased  slave? 

O  sea-wind  blowing  fair  and  fast 
Is  it  unto  the  Dorian  strand. 
Or  to  those  far  and  fabled  shores, 
Where  great  Apidanus  outpours 
His  streams  upon  the  fertile  land. 
Or  shall  I  tread  the  Phthian  sand. 
Borne  by  the  swift  breath  of  the  blast? 

ANTI2TPO<I>H 

O  blowing  wind !  you  bring  my  sorrow  near. 
For  surely  borne  with  splashing  of  the  oar. 

And  hidden  in  some  galley-prison  drear 
I  shall  be  led  unto  that  distant  shore 


318  TRANSLATIONS 

Where  the  tall  palm-tree  first  took  root,  and  made, 
With  clustering  laurel  leaves,  a  pleasant  shade 
For  Leto  when  with  travail  great  she  bore 
A  god  and  goddess  in  Love's  bitter  fight. 
Her  body's  anguish,  and  her  soul's  delight. 


It  may  be  in  Delos, 

Encircled  of  seas, 
I  shall  sing  with  some  maids 

From  the  Cyclades, 
Of  Artemis  goddess 

And  queen  and  maiden, 
Sing  of  the  gold 

In  her  hair  heavy-laden. 
Sing  of  her  hunting. 

Her  arrows  and  bow. 
And  in  singing  find  solace 

From  weeping  and  woe. 

2TP04)H    B 

Or  it  may  be  my  bitter  doom 

To  stand  a  handmaid  at  the  loom. 
In  distant  Athens  of  supreme  renown; 

And  weave  some  wondrous  tapestry, 

Or  work  in  bright  embroidery. 
Upon  the  crocus-flowered  robe  and  saffron-coloured  gown. 

The  flying  horses  wrought  in  gold, 

The  silver  chariot  onward  rolled 
That  bears  Athena  through  the  Town ; 


TRANSLATIONS  319 

Or  the  warring  giants  that  strove  to  chmb 
From  earth  to  lieavcn  to  reigii  as  kings, 
And  Zeus  tlie  conquering  son  of  Time 
Borne  on  the  hurricane's  eagle  wings ; 
And  tlie  lightning  flame  and  the  bolts  that  fell 

From  the  risen  cloud  at  the  god's  behest, 
And  hurled  the  rebels  to  darkness  of  hell, 

To  a  sleep  without  slumber  or  waking  or  rest. 


ANTISTP04)H    B 

Alas !  our  children's  sorrow,  and  their  pain 

In  slavery. 
Alas !  our  w^arrior  sires  nobly  slain 

For  liberty. 
Alas !  our  country's  glory,  and  the  name 

Of  Troy's  fair  town ; 
By  the  lances  and  the  fighting  and  the  flame 

Tall  Troy  is  down. 

I  shall  pass  with  my  soul  overladen. 

To  a  land  far  away  and  unseen. 
For  Asia  is  slave  and  handmaiden, 

Europa  is  Mistress  and  Queen. 
Without  love,  or  love's  holiest  treasure, 

I  shall  pass  into  Hades  abhorred, 
To  the  grave  as  my  chamber  of  pleasure. 

To  death  as  my  Lover  and  Lord. 


320  TRANSLATIONS 


A  FRAGMENT  FROM  THE  AGAMEMNON 
OF    iESCHYLOS 

(Lines    1140-1173) 

[The  scene  is  the  court-yard  of  the  Palace  at  Argos.  Agamem- 
non has  already  entered  the  House  of  Doom,  and  Clytemnestra 
has  followed  close  on  his  heels.  Cassandra  is  left  alone  upon  the 
stage.  The  conscious  terror  of  death  and  the  burden  of  prophecy 
lie  heavy  upon  her;  terrible  signs  and  visions  greet  her  approach. 
She  sees  blood  upon  the  lintel,  and  the  smell  of  blood  scares  her, 
as  some  bird,  from  the  door.  The  ghosts  of  the  murdered  chil- 
dren come  to  mourn  with  her.  Her  second  sight  pierces  the  Pal- 
ace walls;  she  sees  the  fatal  bath,  the  trammelling  net,  and  the 
axe  sharpened  for  her  own  ruin  and  her  lord's. 

But  not  even  in  the  hour  of  her  last  anguish  is  Apollo  mer- 
ciful; her  warnings  are  unheeded,  her  prophetic  utterances  made 
mock  of. 

The  orchestra  is  filled  with  a  chorus  of  old  men  weak,  foolish, 
irresolute.  They  do  not  believe  the  weird  woman  of  mystery  till 
the  hour  for  help  is  past,  and  the  cry  of  Agamemnon  echoes  from 
the  house,  "Oh  me!  I  am  stricken  with  a  stroke  of  death."] 


CHORUS 

r  1 1 H Y  prophecies  are  but  a  lying  tale, 
^       For  cruel  gods  have  brought  thee  to  this  state, 
And  of  thyself  and  thine  own  wretched  fate 
Sing  you  this  song  and  these  unhallowed  lays. 

Like  the  brown  bird  of  grief  insatiate 
Crying  for  sorrow  of  its  dreary  days; 

Crying  for  Itys,  Itys,  in  the  vale — 
The  nightingale!     The  nightingale! 


TRANSLATIONS  321 


CASSANDRA 

Yet  I  would  that  to  me  they  had  given 

The  fate  of  that  singer  so  clear, 
Fleet  wings  to  fly  np  unto  heaven, 

Away  from  all  mourning  and  fear ; 

For  ruin  and  slaughter  await  me — the  cleaving  with 
sword  and  the  spear. 

CHORUS 

Whence  come  these  crowding  fancies  on  thy  brain, 

Sent  by  some  god  it  may  be,  yet  for  naught? 
Why  dost  thou  sing  with  evil-tongued  refrain. 
Moulding  thy  terrors  to  this  hideous  strain 

With  shrill,  sad  cries,  as  if  by  death  distraught? 
Why  dost  thou  tread  that  path  of  prophecy, 
Where,  upon  either  hand, 
Landmarks  for  ever  stand 
With  horrid  legend  for  all  men  to  see? 

CASSANDRA 

O  bitter  bridegroom  who  didst  bear 
Ruin  to  those  that  loved  thee  true ! 

O  holy  stream  Scamander,  where 
With  gentle  nurturement  I  grew 
In  the  first  days,  when  life  and  love  were  new. 


322  TRANSLATIONS 

And  now — and  now — it  seems  that  I  must  lie 
In  the  dark  land  that  never  sees  the  sun ; 

Sing  my  sad  songs  of  fruitless  prophecy 

By  the  black  stream  Cokytos  that  doth  run 
Through  long,  low  liills  of  dreary  Acheron. 

CHORUS 

Ah,  but  thy  word  is  clear! 
Even  a  child  among  men, 
Even  a  child  might  see 
What  is  lying  hidden  here. 
Ah!  I  am  smitten  deep 
To  the  heart  with  a  deadly  blow 
At  the  evil  fate  of  the  maid, 
At  the  cry  of  her  song  of  woe ! 
Sorrow  s  for  her  to  bear ! 
Wonders   for  me  to  hear! 


CASSANDRA 

O  my  poor  land  laid  waste  with  flame  and  fire ! 

O   ruined   city   overthrown  by  fate! 
Ah,  what  availed  the  offerings  of  my  Sire 

To  keep  the  foreign  foemen  from  the  gate! 
Ah,  what  availed  the  herds  of  pasturing  kine 
To  save  my  country  from  the  wrath  divine! 

Ah,  neither  prayer  nor  priest  availed  aught. 

Nor  the  strong  captains  that  so  stoutly  fought, 


TRANSLATIONS  323 

For  the  tall  town  lies  desolate  and  low. 

And  I,  the  singer  of  this  song  of  woe, 
Know,  by  the  fire  burning  in  my  brain. 
That  Death,  the  healer  of  all  earthly  pain, 

Is  close  at  liand!     I  will  not  shirk  the  blow. 


324  TRANSLATIONS 


SEN   ARTYSTY;   OR,   THE   ARTIST'S   DREAM 

FROM    THE    POLISH    OF    MADAME    HELENA    MODJESKA 

T    TOO  have  had  my  dreams :  ay,  known  indeed 
-*■      The  crowded  visions  of  a  fiery  youth 
Which  haunt  me  still. 


Methought  that  once  I  lay 
Within  some  garden  close,  what  time  the  Spring 
Breaks  like  a  bird  from  Winter,  and  the  sky 
Is  sapphire-vaulted.     The  pure  air  was  soft. 
And  the  deep  grass  I  lay  on  soft  as  air. 
The  strange  and  secret  life  of  the  young  trees 
Swelled  in  the  green  and  tender  bark,  or  burst 
To  buds  of  sheathed  emerald ;  violets 
Peered  from  their  nooks  of  hiding,  half  afraid 
Of  their  own  loveliness ;  the  vermeil  rose 
Opened  its  heart,  and  the  bright  star-flower 
Shone  like  a  star  of  moraing.     Butterflies, 
In  painted  liveries  of  brown  and  gold. 
Took  the  shy  bluebells  as  their  pavilions 
And  seats  of  pleasaunce ;  overhead  a  bird 
Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms  as  it  flew 


TRANSLATIONS  325 

To  chami  the  woods  with  singing :  tlio  whole  world 
Seemed  waking  to  delight! 

And  yet — and  yet — 
My  soul  was  filled  with  leaden  heaviness : 
I  had  no  joy  in  Nature;  what  to  me, 
Amhition's  slave,  was  crimson-stained  rose 
Or  the  gold-sceptred  crocus?     The  bright  bird 
Sang  out  of  tune  for  me,  and  the  sweet  flowers 
Seemed  but  a  pageant,  and  an  unreal  show 
That  mocked  my  heart ;  for,  like  the  fabled  snake 
That  stings  itself  to  ang^iish,  so  I  lay 
Self-tortured,  self-tormented. 

The  day  crept 
Unheeded  on  the  dial,  till  the  sun 
Dropt,  purple-sailed,  into  the  gorgeous  East, 
When,  from  the  fiery  heart  of  that  great  orb. 
Came  One  whose  shape  of  beauty  far  outshone 
The  most  bright  vision  of  this  common  earth. 
Girt  was  she  in  a  robe  more  white  than  flame 
Or  furnace-heated  brass ;  upon  her  head 
She  bare  a  laurel  crown,  and,  like  a  star 
That  falls  from  the  high  heaven  suddenly, 
Passed  to  my  side. 

Then  kneeling  low,  I  cried 
"O  much-desired !    O  long-waited  for ! 
Immortal  Glory  !    Great  world-conqueror  ! 
Oh,  let  me  not  die  crownless ;  once,  at  least. 
Let  thine  imperial  laurels  bind  my  brows. 
Ignoble  else.     Once  let  the  clarion  note 


326  TRANSLATIONS 

And  trump  of  loud  ambition  sound  my  name, 
And  for  the  rest  I  care  not." 

Then  to  me, 
In  gentle  voice,  the  angel  made  reply : 
"Child,  ignorant  of  the  true  happiness. 
Nor  knowing  life's  best  wisdom,  thou  wert  made 
For  light  and  love  and  laughter,  not  to  waste 
Thy  youth  in  shooting  arrows  at  the  sun, 
Or  nurturing  that  ambition  in  thy  soul 
Wliose  deadly  poison  will  infect  thy  heart. 
Marring  all  joy  and  gladness!     Tarry  here 
In  the  sweet  confines  of  this  garden-close 
Whose  level  meads  and  glades  delectable 
Invite  for  pleasure;  the  wild  bird  that  wakes 
These  silent  dells  with  sudden  melody 
Shall  be  thy  playmate ;  and  each  flower  that  blows 
Shall  twine  itself  unbidden  in  thy  hair — 
Garland  more  meet  for  thee  than  the  dread  weight 
Of  Glory's  laurel  wreath." 

"Ah !  fruitless  gifts," 
I  cried,  unheeding  of  her  prudent  word, 
"Are  all  such  mortal  flowers,  whose  brief  lives 
Are  bounded  by  the  dawn  and  setting  sun. 
The  anger  of  the  noon  can  wound  the  rose, 
And  the  rain  rob  the  crocus  of  its  gold ; 
But  thine  immortal  coronal  of  Fame, 
Thy  crown  of  deathless  laurel,  this  alone 
Age  cannot  harm,  nor  winter's  icy  tooth 
Pierce  to  its  hurt,  nor  common  things  profane." 


TRANSLATIONS  327 

No  answer  made  the  angcI,  hut  her  face 
Dimmed  with  tlie  mists  of  pity. 

Then  methoug'ht 
That  from  mine  eyes,  wherein  ambition's  torch 
Burned  with  its  latest  and  most  ardent  flame, 
Flashed  forth  two  level  beams  of  straitened  light, 
Beneath  whose  fulgent  fires  the  laurel  crown 
Twisted  and  curled,  as  when  the  Sirian  star 
Withers  the  ripening  corn,  and  one  pale  leaf 
Fell  on  my  brow ;  and  I  leapt  up  and  felt 
The  mighty  pulse  of  Fame,  and  heard  far  off 
The  sound  of  many  nations  praising  me ! 


One  fier^'-colourcd  moment  of  great  life ! 
And  then — how  barren  was  the  nations'  praise! 
How  vain  the  trump  of  Glory !  Bitter  thorns 
Were  in  that  laurel  leaf,  whose  toothed  barbs 
Burned  and  bit  deep  till  fire  and  red  flame 
Seemed  to  feed  full  upon  my  brain,  and  make 
The  garden  a  bare  desert. 

With  wild  hands 
I  strove  to  tear  it  from  my  bleeding  brow. 
But  all  in  vain ;  and  with  a  dolorous  cry 
That  paled  the  lingering  stars  before  their  time, 
I  waked  at  last,  and  saw  the  timorous  dawn 
Peer  with  grey  face  into  my  darkened  room, 
And  would  have  deemed  it  a  mere  idle  dream 
But  for  this  restless  pain  that  gnaws  my  heart. 
And  the  red  wounds  of  thorns  upon  my  brow. 


INDEX  TO  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 

(Titles  are  set  in  capitals  and  small  capitals ;  first  lines,  in 
upper  and  lower  case.) 


A.  fair  slim  boy  not  made  for 
this  world's  pain,  273. 

ATXtvov  a'tXcvov  slr.i  to  o'  eu 
v'.y.iT(.),  ^26s. 

Against  these  turbid  turquoise 
skies,  385. 

A  lily-crirl,  not  made  for  this 
world's   ]inin,   66. 

Amor  Ixtelijectualis,  119. 

Apologia,    177. 

A  rinj;  of  gold  and  a  milk- 
white  dove,   103. 

Artist.  The,  297. 

At   Verona,   176. 

Athanasia,  94. 

Ave   I.-mperatrix,  21. 

Ave   Maria   Gratia   Plexa,  54. 

A  white  mist  drifts  across  the 
shrouds,  275. 

A  year  ago  I  breathed  the 
Italian    air,    3. 

Albeit  nurtured  in  democ- 
racy, 32. 

And  there  was  silence  in  the 
House  of  Judgment,  302. 

An  omnibus  across  the  bridge, 
288. 

As  oftentimes  the  too  resplen- 
dent  sun,    180. 

As  one  who  jwring  on  a  Gre- 
cian urn,  161. 

Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol,  The, 

235. 
Ballade  de  Marguerite,  144. 
Ballons,  Les,  285. 
Bella       Donna       della       mia 

Mente,  La,  101. 


Burden  of  Itys,  The,  71. 
By  the  Arno,  154. 

Camma,  161. 

Canzonet,  286. 

Chanson,  103. 

Charimides,  105. 

Chorus  of  Cloud  Maidens,  315. 

Christ,  dost  thou  live  indeed? 
or  are  thy  bones,  30. 

Cloud  maidens  that  float  on 
forever,  315. 

Come  down,  O  Christ,  and 
help  me  reach  thy  hand,  64. 

Could  we  dig  up  this  long- 
buried  treasure,  291. 

Dear  Heart  I  think  the  young 
impassioned   priest,   179*. 

Disciple,   The,   300. 

Doer  of  Good,  The,  298. 

Dole  of  the  King's  Daugh- 
ter, The,  147. 

Eagle     of     Austerlitz!     where 

were  thy  wings,  29. 
Easter   Day,   63. 
Eleutheria,   19. 
Kndymion,  99. 
E   Tenebris,  64. 

Fabien  dei   Franchi.  157. 
Fantaisies  Decorattves,  283. 
Flower  of  I.ove,  207. 
Flowers  of  Goij),  137. 
Fourth    Movement.   The,   173. 
Fragment  from  the  Agamem- 
non  OF  /ESCHYLUS,   A,  320. 


329 


330 


TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


From  his  childhood  he  had 
been  as  one  filled  with  the 
perfect  knowledge  of  God, 
305. 

From  Spring  Days  to  Win- 
ter,  267. 

FUITE    DE    LA    LUNE,    La,    140. 

Garden  of  Eros,  The,  35. 
rXuxuxixpoq  "Epwq,   209. 
Go,  little  book,  290. 
Grave  of  Keats,  The,  141. 
Grave  of  Shelley,  The,   153. 

Harlot's   House,   The,  278. 

Helas!    18. 

He  did  not  wear  his  scarlet 
coat,  237. 

He  was  a  Grecian  lad,  who 
coming  home,  107. 

Her  ivory  hands  on  the  ivory 
keys,  143. 

Her  Voice.  181. 

House  of  Judgment,  The,  302. 

How  steep  the  stairs  within 
Kings'  houses  are,  176. 

How  vain  and  dull  this  com- 
mon world  must  seem,  158. 

Humanitad,   185. 

I  am  weary  of  lying  within  the 

chase,    144. 
I  can  write  no  stately  poem,  iii. 
I  have  no  store,  286. 
I  marvel  not   Bassanio  was  so 

bold,  159. 
Impression  du  Matin,  91. 
Impression   de    Voyage,    152. 
Impression:       Le       Reveillon, 

175. 
Impressions:    Les    Silhouettes, 

La  Fuite  de  la  I.une,  140. 
Impressions  de  Theatre,  155. 
In  the   Forest,  289. 
In  the  Gold  Room,  143. 
I    reached    the    Alps:    the    soul 

within  me  burned,  52. 


I    stood    by    the    unvintageable 

sea,  65. 
I  too  have  had  my  dreams:  ay, 

known  indeed,  324. 
I     wandered      through     Scogli- 

etto's  far  retreat,  56. 
In   a   dim   corner  of  my   room 

for    longer    than    my    fancy 

thinks,    215. 
In   the   glad   spring  time   when 

leaves  were  green,  267. 
In    the    lone    tent,    waiting    for 

victory,   160. 
Is    it    thy    will    that    I    should 

wax  and  wane,  177. 
It    is    full    summer    now,    the 

heart  of  June,  37. 
It    is     full    Winter    now:    the 

trees  are  bare,  187, 
It  was  night-time  and  He  was 

alone,  298. 
Italia,  55. 
Italia!   thou  art   fallen,  though 

with  sheen,  55. 

Jardin,  Le,  274. 

Jardin  des  Tuileries,  Le.  280. 

Libertatis  Sacra  Fames,  32. 
Like    burnt-out    torches    by    a 

sick  man's  bed,  153. 
Lotus   Leaves,   270. 
Louis   Napoleon,   29. 

Madonna  Mia,  66. 

Magdalen  Walks,  92. 

Master,   The,  301. 

Mer,   La,  275. 

Milton !    I  think  thy  spirit  hath 

passed  away,  28. 
My    limbs    are    wasted    with    a 

flame,  101. 
My    Voice,    183. 

Nay,    let    us    walk    from    fire 

unto    fire,    165. 
Nay,     Lord,    not    thus!    white 

lilies  in  the  spring,  62. 
New  Helen,  The,  67. 


TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


331 


New   Remorse,  The,  28:3. 
Not   that    I    love    thy    children, 

whose  dull  eyes,  27. 
Now   when   the   darkness   came 

over  the  earth,  301. 

O  beautiful  star  with  the  crim- 
son mouth !  276. 

O  fair  wind  blowing  from  the 
sea!  317. 

O  singer  of  Persephone!  142. 

O  well  for  him  who  lives  at 
ease,  268. 

Oft  have  we  trod  the  vales  of 
Castaly,  149. 

One  evening  there  came  into 
his   soul,  297. 

On  the  Recent  Sale  by  Auc- 
tion OF  Keats'  Love  Let- 
ters, 281. 

Out  of  the  mid-wood's  twilight, 
289. 

Panneau,  Le,  283. 
Panthea,    163. 
Piikdre,  158. 
Poems  in  Prose,  295. 
Portia,  159. 

Quantum  Mutata,  31. 

Queen   Henrietta  Maria,  160. 

Quia   Multum    Amavi,   179. 

Ravenna,  1. 

Requiescat,   51. 

Reveillon,  Le,  175. 

Rid  of  the  world's  injustice, 
and  his  pain,  141. 

Rome  Un visited,  57. 

Rome!  what  a  scroll  of  His- 
tory thine  has  been,  61. 

Rosa   Mystica,   49. 

San  Miniato,  53. 
Santa   Decca,   150. 
See,  I  have  climbed  the  moun- 
tain side,  53. 


Sen    Artvsty;    or.    Tiik    Art 

ist's  Dheam.  324. 
Serenade,  97. 
Set    in    this    stormy    Northern 

sea,  21. 
Seven    stars   in   the   still   water, 

147. 

SiLENTIUM    AmORIS,    180. 

Silhouettes,  Les,  139. 

Sonnet  on  Approaching 
Italy,  52. 

Sonnet  on  Hearing  the  Dies 
Ir.e  Sung,  62. 

Soxxet  ox  the  Massacre  of 
Christians  in   Bulgaria,  30. 

Sonnet  to  Liberty,  27. 

Soxxet  Written  ix  Holy 
Week  at  Genoa,  56. 

Sonnets  written  at  the  Ly- 
ceum Theatre,  159. 

Sphinx,  The,  213. 

Sweet  I  blame  you  not  for 
mine  the   fault  was,  209. 

Symphony  in  Yellow,  288. 


TiEDIUM  VlT.E,   184. 

Teacher  of  Wisdom,  The,  305. 

The  apple-trees  are  hung  with 
gold,  99. 

The  corn  has  turned  from  grey 
to  red,  57. 

The  Gods  are  dead:  no  longer 
do  we  bring,   150. 

The  lily's  withered  chalice 
falls,  274. 

The  little  white  clouds  are  rac- 
ing over  the  sky,  92. 

Theocritus,  142. 

Theoretjkos,   33. 

0pT3V(pc(a,  317. 

The  oleander  on  the  wall,  154. 

The    sea    is    flecked    with    bars 

of  grey,  139, 
The  sea  was  sapphire  coloured, 

and  the  sky,  152. 
The     silent     room,     the     hea\y 

creeping  shade,  157. 


332 


TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 


The      silver      trumpets      rang 

across  the  Dome,  63. 
The   sin   was   mine;   I   did  not 

understand,  282. 
The    sky    is    laced    with    fitful 

red,  175. 
The   Thames   nocturne   of  blue 

and  gold,  91. 
The    western    wind    is    blowing 

fair,  97. 
The  wild  bee  reels  from  bough 

to  bough,  181. 
There  is  no  peace  beneath  the 

noon,  270. 
There   was    a   time   in    Europe 

long  ago,  31. 
These     are    the    letters    which 

Endymion  wrote,  281. 
This   English  Thames  is  holier 

far  than  Rome,  73. 
This   mighty    empire   hath   but 

feet  of  clay,  33. 
This    winter    air    is    keen    and 

cold,  280. 
Thou    knowest    all;    I    seek    in 

vain,  269. 
Thy  prophecies  are  but  a  lying 

tale,  320. 
To  drift  with  every  passion  till 

my  soul,  19. 
To  L.  L.,  291. 
To   Milton,  28. 
To    MY    Wife:    With    a    Copy 

OF  MY  Poems,  iii. 


To  outer  senses  there  is  peace, 
140. 

To  stab  my  youth  with  desper- 
ate knives,  to  wear,  184. 

To  that  gaunt  House  of  Art 
which   lacks    for   naught,   94. 

Translations,  313. 

Tread  lightly,  she  is  near,  51. 

True   Knowledge,  The,  269. 

Two  crowned  Kings,  and  One 
that  stood  alone,  151. 

Under  the  Balcony,  276. 
Under    the    rose-tree's   dancing 

shade,   283. 
Urbs  Sacra  vEterna,  61. 

Vision,  A,  151. 
Vita  Nuova,  65. 

Wasted  Days,  273. 

Was  this  His  coming!  I  had 
hoped  to  see,  54. 

We  caught  the  tread  of  dan- 
cing feet,  278. 

When  Narcissus  died  the  pool 
of  his  pleasure  changed,  300, 

Where  hast  thou  been  since 
round  the  walls  of  Troy,  67. 

Wind  Flowers,  89. 

With  a  Copy  of  "A  House  of 
Pomegranates,"    290. 

Within  this  restless,  hurried, 
modern  world,  183. 


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